


Herald of Time and Space

by poetikat



Series: Glowing Portals and Mirrored Eluvians [1]
Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition, Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: All Inquisitor Backgrounds, Ancient Elves (Dragon Age), Background Geralt of Rivia/Yennefer of Vengerberg, Background Hawke/Anders (Dragon Age), Book Emhyr, Book: Dragon Age - The Masked Empire, Canon-Typical Violence, Eventual Romance, F/M, Gen, Inquisitor Ciri, M/M, Mage Rights (Dragon Age), Minor Blackwall/Cadash, Minor Character Death, Minor Cullen Rutherford/Female Trevelyan, Minor Dorian Pavus/Male Trevelyan, Mix of Game and Book Canon (Witcher Universe), Platonic Female/Male Relationships, Post-Blood and Wine (The Witcher 3 DLC), Redemption, The Fade, Witcher Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon, allusions to past rape/non-con, implied/referenced past domestic abuse
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-09
Updated: 2021-02-20
Packaged: 2021-02-26 01:14:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 63
Words: 364,746
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21735094
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/poetikat/pseuds/poetikat
Summary: When the letter from another world came through the portal, they all had different reasons to answer. Ciri saw a good cause. Triss saw mages in need. And Olgierd saw a new world, far from his past mistakes. But when the Conclave explodes and Ciri is hailed as the Maker’s instrument, their journey to Thedas becomes far more complicated and dangerous than they’d imagined.Updates every Saturday.
Relationships: Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon & Olgierd von Everec, Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon & Solas, Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon/Male Trevelyan, Olgierd von Everec/Josephine Montilyet
Series: Glowing Portals and Mirrored Eluvians [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2134197
Comments: 719
Kudos: 343





	1. Parties and Portals

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Friends and family gather for Belleteyn, and Ciri's good mood is threatened by the arrival of Geralt's mysterious guest. Later, a message comes through an abandoned portal begging for help.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beta-read by brightspot149. Thank you!

A flash of pale green light cut through the void of space, and with one step, Ciri left Sodden and found herself in Toussaint.

“Easy,” she said, patting Zephyr’s neck. It was simply habit to soothe her now. Her brave black mare boldly strode through portals, teleported across the Continent, and outran fiends without flinching.

She’d been in Sodden for two long and unpleasant weeks. The Path was difficult, the peasantry suspicious, and the monsters vicious, but this was the life she’d chosen, the one she’d wanted. Her most recent contract saw her ridding a village cemetery of a grave hag that was preying on its children at night. Now thirty crowns richer and in desperate need of a good meal and her own bed, all she wanted was to spend the week in Corvo Bianco with her adoptive parents.

She rode up the cobblestone path, tilting her face toward the warm, late April sun. _Besides_ , she thought with a sudden smile, _it's nearly Belleteyn._ Ciri couldn’t remember the last time they’d all been together for the holiday, and for the birthday she shared with Lady Yennefer. Truthfully, she wasn’t sure they ever had.

Geralt’s mare, Roach, greeted her with a soft nicker when she reached the stables. Ciri dismounted from Zephyr’s back and rubbed Roach’s velvety nose over the stall.

“Hello, sweet girl,” she said. “Have you been looking out for Geralt for me?”

She reached for the door of the next stall over and stepped back abruptly as a large black head swung over the door to peer at her.

_Scorpion?_

Ciri checked the third stall, and the fourth. Occupied, and by familiar horses. Excitement rose in her chest. She unsaddled Zephyr hastily, leading her into the empty fifth stall to brush her down. She dropped off the saddle and bridle in the tack room and rushed into the villa, grinning.

“Geralt, Geralt, don’t be silly,” Keira Metz said as she flew through the door. “We never got your invitation. This is simply stop number – what was it, Lambert?”

“Three,” Lambert said.

“Three,” Keira continued. “We’re here for the wine.”

Eskel, leaning against the wall and looking very amused, was the first to spot Ciri. “Kid!” he greeted her. “Get over here.” He swept her up in a tight bear hug, the rivets of his armor digging into her chest. “Good job not getting killed on the Path.”

“Yeah, nice work, kid,” Lambert said. He raised a glass of wine in her direction.

“Ciri!” Keira said cheerily. “You’re looking very alive.”

“Don’t tell anyone,” she said. “I’d like to keep it that way.”

She traded Eskel's arms for Geralt's and sank into her father's hug, brief but heartfelt.

“You have a scratch,” Geralt said, gesturing to her collarbone.

“The grave hag didn’t let me off without a souvenir,” Ciri said.

“Good work,” Lambert said. “Taking over for the old man. What have you been fighting these days, Wolf? Crows and vine rot?”

Geralt plucked the wine glass from Lambert’s hand. “Among other things.”

“Where’s Lady Yennefer?” Ciri asked.

“In the alchemy laboratory with Triss,” Geralt said. “She’ll be glad to see you.” He handed her Lambert’s stolen glass of wine. “Why don’t you bring her something to drink?”

“Wolf, you bastard –”

Laughing, Ciri slipped back out the door and went down to the wine cellar beneath the steps, walking past the stacks of barrels and crates of bottles to the little laboratory in the back. She could hear two voices, one low and melodic, the other higher and younger-sounding.

“I’m home,” she announced, and the owner of the melodic voice whirled around to hug her tightly.

“Ciri, darling,” Lady Yennefer of Vengerberg said fondly. She pulled back and peered at her face. “You look tired. And this cut is filthy.”

“I’m fine, Mother,” she said. Lady Yennefer’s violet eyes softened at the address.

“Of course you are,” Yennefer said. “How could you be otherwise?”

Ciri pulled away reluctantly and offered a hug to Triss as well, who gladly accepted. “Little sis,” she said, smiling. “How’s the Path treating you?”

“Oh, you know,” Ciri said. “If it’s not drowners and ghouls, it’s katakans and chorts. The food is terrible, the pay is lousy, and the clients are usually ungrateful.”

“Second thoughts?” Triss asked.

“Not for a moment,” she said.

Triss shook her head. “You could have had power, you know.”

“And give up any power over my own body?” Ciri retorted. “No thank you.”

“Leave her be, Triss,” Yennefer said. “Ciri knows her own mind. Tell us; what news is there from Tankred’s court?”

“Petty politics and scheming, as usual," Triss said. "Word from Nilfgaard is that Philippa finally managed to push Fringilla to the margins and grab a position as Emhyr’s magical advisor." 

Yennefer raised an eyebrow at that. “Philippa had better watch that she doesn’t overreach herself.”

“I’d be more worried about Fringilla, myself,” Triss said. “She can be spiteful when she’s slighted.”

“Nilfgaard’s court is a pit of vipers,” Ciri said. “No, Triss, I have no regrets. I’m better off with the ghouls.”

She considered the half-full glass of wine in her hand. Joke or not, Yennefer wouldn’t appreciate being given Lambert’s castoffs. She took a sip and smiled. _Oh_ , that was lovely. “Was there word of me?” she asked.

“No,” Triss assured her. “Everyone still thinks you’re dead.”

“Good,” Ciri said firmly.

Yennefer beckoned her to the table of alchemical books and reagents. “I’ve a birthday present for you,” she said. “Here.”

She picked up a necklace made of fine silver links, a pendant of deep blue agate hanging from the center. Within its depths, a spell swirled. “Alzur’s Thunder,” she said, reaching around Ciri’s neck to secure the necklace in place. “It will recharge, but slowly, so use it only when you truly need it.”

“I promise,” Ciri said, touching the pendant gently. It fit perfectly within the hollow of her throat, right above her wolf’s head medallion. Secretly, she was impressed by Lady Yennefer’s mastery of such a difficult spell. “But – I haven’t anything to give you.”

“Ciri,” Yennefer said, placing her hands on Ciri’s shoulders. “My little ugly one. You have grown to be a beautiful, capable, accomplished young woman. There were times I never thought we’d have this day. Your gift to me is my pride in you.”

She felt her cheeks heat. “Mother….”

“Hush. It’s the truth.”

Triss cleared her throat quietly. “Your gift is in my bags.”

“Thank you, Triss,” Ciri said. “Shall we return to the others?”

“If we must,” Yennefer said. “Lambert is bound to be insufferable.”

“Actually, he might be worse,” Ciri said, and held up the wine glass. “Geralt gave me his wine.”

They exited the cool, dim cellar, laughing, and walked into daylight.

* * *

Dandelion and Priscilla arrived an hour later, riding like the hounds of the Wild Hunt pursued them. Dandelion had a scarf wrapped around his head like a heavy balaclava. It did absolutely nothing to conceal his identity, however, as his ostentatious pink and silver-threaded doublet still shone brightly beneath the sun, and his lute bounced along on his back as he rode.

“You could have told me there was still a warrant out for my arrest in Toussaint,” he said as soon as the door shut behind him.

“There’s still a price on your _head_ , Dandelion,” Geralt said. “That hasn’t changed in years.”

“See, this is why I just write songs about royalty,” Priscilla said, nodding sagely. “It never pays to sleep with them.”

“Ah, no matter,” Dandelion said, shedding his scarf. “Anarietta will forget all about me as soon as I leave.”

“Or she’ll have you up on the executioner’s block again,” Geralt said.

“You’re such a pessimist,” Dandelion dismissed. He looked around and beamed. “Triss, Yennefer, lovely as always. Ciri, so good to see you.”

“We’ve been writing up a storm these past few years,” Priscilla said. “About you, too, Ciri.”

A shiver of unease wormed down Ciri’s spine. “Please tell me you haven’t been playing the one about me in public.”

“What kind of gauche jongleurs do you take us for?” Dandelion asked. “We’d never breach your confidence like that.”

“Besides, it deserves a grand debut,” Priscilla added. “Here, on Belleteyn, at the party!”

Ciri didn’t know quite how to feel about being the subject of one of “Master Dandelion’s” ballads. His dedication to chronicling the deeds of her adoptive father was bad enough, and she needed to keep a low profile if she wanted to avoid the eyes of Emhyr and his spymasters.

She put it from her mind and joined Eskel and Lambert in Geralt’s study, where they were examining the swords on the wall. One in particular, an old Redanian saber, had caught their attention.

“Know this one’s history?” Eskel asked.

She did, in fact. She’d heard the whole miserable tale several visits ago. Geralt had spoken long into the night, and they’d polished off two whole bottles of wine between the two of them before the story wound to a close.

“It was a gift from a Redanian noble,” Ciri said. “Geralt faced down a demon to save his life, and the nobleman gave him his sword in thanks.”

Ciri had drunkenly offered her opinions on Geralt’s reckless heroism that night, and on how undeserving Olgierd von Everec was of his help.

“ _You didn’t see him afterward, Ciri,”_ Geralt had said. _“The curse broke something in him. I think he’ll be putting himself back together for a long time.”_

“That’s quality steel,” Lambert said. “He must have been pretty grateful to part with that.”

“He’d better have been,” Ciri muttered.

Laughter rang out in the dining room, and the sound of aimless strumming filled the air.

“Lutes go missing all the time,” Eskel said. “If you don’t like the new song.”

“Bards go missing, too,” Lambert said.

“You’re both terrible,” Ciri said, and smiled. “Thank you.”

“Go check upstairs,” Eskel said. “We went in with Geralt on a gift for you. It’s not right, you running around fighting monsters in just a shirt.”

“You’re giving the School of the Wolf a bad reputation, kid,” Lambert said. “You need armor.”

“Thank you," she said again and left them behind to dart up the stairs to her bedroom.

There, at the foot of her bed, stood an armored dummy dressed in a smaller, slimmer version of Geralt’s Wolf School armor. Steel reinforced boots, wool and leather trousers, a leather-backed chainmail jacket over a studded leather jerkin, and sturdy leather gauntlets, all in shades of black and red. Was this why Yennefer had insisted on getting her measured for a new dress the last time she’d been here? How long had they been planning this?

Ciri looked at it, tempted, but the laughter from downstairs rang out again and she turned back to rejoin the festivities. It would keep until tomorrow.

She thanked Geralt fervently when she returned to the dining room. He just smiled slightly. “Anything to make the Path easier for you.”

She settled in beside him to listen to one of Dandelion and Priscilla’s new ballads – thankfully, not the one about her. It had a rolling, dangerous rhythm, and Ciri was quickly enraptured as they sang about the recent war. And, naturally, about Geralt’s part in it.

The song came to an end, Dandelion and Priscilla proffering flourishing bows, and the assembled guests applauded enthusiastically.

Then, as the applause tapered off, there was a knock at the door.

Geralt’s smile faded, and he stood from the table. “Be right back.”

He slipped out the door, leaving it open ajar behind him. Ciri followed, standing at the crack and looking out to see who could have caused that reaction.

The man at the door was tall, and he stood in shadow. She could see only that he wore very fine embroidered Redanian robes and a jeweled livery collar around his neck.

“I got your invitation,” he said to Geralt. “How did you find me?”

“Yen scried for you in the reflection of your saber,” Geralt said, and the man chuckled.

“That’s the second time that sword’s turned on me. Can you not let me be, Witcher? A man might wish to wallow in peace.”

“You were going to turn over a new leaf, lead a different life,” Geralt said. “From what Yen told me, you were holed up at an inn in Rivia, drinking.”

“I’ve a right to pickle my leaf before I turn it,” the man said. Geralt scoffed, and he said more seriously, “Everywhere I look I see old ghosts haunting me. I thought perhaps a drink or two might make the regrets fade some. Perhaps I got a bit carried away.”

“Everywhere you look? Have you tried leaving?”

“Where to? I’ve no love for Nilfgaard, humans aren’t welcome in Dol Blathanna, I detest Ofier, and Zerrikania is too strange.”

“And the Northern countries?” Geralt asked.

“I may as well drink poison,” the man said, “for Redania will kill me by inches with all the memories she holds. Nay, not Redania, nor her neighbors. They are all tainted by association.”

“Toussaint, then,” Geralt said impatiently. “Stay. Just for a few days.”

“Is this sympathy for the devil, Witcher?”

“We’ve met the devil, Olgierd,” Geralt said. “You’re not him.”

The man stepped from the shadows, and the fading sun struck his bright red hair, setting it aflame atop his head. Ciri stared at him unashamedly. _This_ was Olgierd von Everec? The man with the heart of stone? The cold yet chivalrous ataman of a company of Redanian raiders? She just...didn’t see it.

Oh, certainly, he was terribly handsome, pale and patrician, with an unexpected smattering of freckles, and covered in scars that made Geralt look like he’d lived a comparatively safe and sheltered life. But the meticulously groomed beard was unkempt, the sides of his shaved head were covered in several days’ worth of stubble, and he had deep circles beneath his blue-green eyes.

Why? Why save this man, who had done so much damage to so many lives? And now Olgierd von Everec was squandering that gift.

She retreated back into the dining room, to the warmth of friends and family. She didn’t know what Geralt was thinking, inviting Olgierd to Belleteyn, but she didn’t like it and she certainly didn’t have to like him.

* * *

Try as she might – and she did try – she found herself very unwillingly liking Olgierd von Everec over the next few days. She’d been fully prepared to find him lacking. To her dismay, he instead proved himself a quiet, introspective man with an air of melancholy that never seemed to fully lift. He had a wry and occasionally biting sense of humor, was cultured, educated, and eloquent, and possessed a lovely singing voice.

The last had been discovered when Lambert had wrested Dandelion’s lute from him and initiated an impromptu game of keep-away. For several minutes, the poor lute flew from hand to hand, traveling above Dandelion’s head as the Witchers threw it about. Then it landed in Olgierd’s lap, and he strummed the strings with hands that knew what they were doing.

“You play?” Lambert asked, immediately abandoning the game. “Do you know anything that isn’t sappy?”

“Or isn’t about the White Wolf?” Eskel added.

Even Dandelion looked intrigued. “You do have a certain proficiency with the instrument. Tell me, do you know any traditional Redanian ballads? I’m Redanian myself, you know, though I prefer my own compositions.”

“No ballads!” Lambert interjected.

Olgierd thought a moment, then strummed the instrument playfully, his many rings glinting in the lamplight.

“A soldier walked along the pathway between the hedges there,  
And came across a maiden bearing some pierogi.

“Oh have you, have you, have you, oh have you, have you heard –  
And came upon a maiden, bearing some pierogi.

“Oh my maiden most fine, do you know of my dreams?  
That I do so love you, and pierogi with cheese.

“Oh have you, have you, have you, oh have you, have you heard –  
“That he does so love her and pierogi with cheese.”

He sang the entire silly song to its ridiculous conclusion, bringing the room to laughter, and then gently handed the lute back to Dandelion.

“My thanks,” he said, a small smile on his face. “I haven’t played in years. Not since my brother died.”

Out of guilt, Ciri wondered, or a lack of interest?

“Then you should start again,” Dandelion insisted. “No musician should squander their gift. That would be a true travesty. I’ll tell you what. We’ll go into Beauclair together and pick up a lute for you, hmm?”

“What, with you in your balaclava?” Lambert asked.

“On second thought, maybe Priscilla should go with you,” Dandelion said.

“That would be appreciated,” Olgierd said. His small smile faded, but the look in his eyes was soft and slightly pained. “I’d like to get my hands on a lute again.”

“Excellent!” Dandelion cheered. He strummed a few chords on his lute and nodded to Ciri. “Your turn to sing, Ciri. What’ll it be?”

“The Three Maids of Vicovaro,” Lambert suggested with a smirk.

Eskel laughed. “Ploughing a Troll!”

“ _You’re both terrible_!”

* * *

The moment that perhaps killed her dislike of Olgierd von Everec came the night of Belleteyn itself. Ciri had dressed for the occasion in a deep blue gown, with Triss’ gift of a jeweled silver comb pulling her hair back. The ladies wore fine dresses, and the men washed up and forewent armor. Olgierd finally took a razor and scissors to his head and beard, shaving off the stubble and trimming his whiskers back into order.

Wine and conversation flowed in equal measure. Hardly a minute passed without someone bursting into laughter. Geralt’s cook had put on a spread fit for kings, and Corvo Bianco’s own Sepremento wine had graced the table. At one end of the table, the sorceresses had their heads together, arguing some arcane point – or was it comparing lovers? At the other, the Witchers talked shop, Lambert offering advice on a better dimeritium bomb and Eskel giving tips on how to fight certain monsters that all but required the potions she couldn’t drink.

In the center, Dandelion and Priscilla held court, somehow managing to eat, drink, and perform all at once. They’d played “Wolven Storm” to applause from most and to good-natured jeers from Lambert, and then they’d begun their new repertoire.

Ciri looked about. Olgierd had slipped from the table amidst the revelry. Concerned, and a bit irritated that she felt concerned, she made quiet excuses and went out the door to find him as Priscilla and Dandelion struck up their next tune.

She found him sitting on the porch beside the door, looking up at the stars. The sounds from within the house were muted, but she could still hear snatches of music.

His eyes cut to her briefly and then looked skyward again. “Ciri.”

“Olgierd.”

“Ask.”

She started. “What?”

“The question that’s been burning at you since I arrived. Ask. I’ll not bite your head off for curiosity.”

Ciri hesitated. There were so many questions she had for him. In the end, though, it came down to just one.

“Do you regret it? Any of it?”

Air escaped him in a long, breathy laugh. “Do I regret it? Oh, my dear. I am a man drowning in regret. But regrets won’t bring anyone back to life, now, will they?”

“No,” Ciri said. “They won’t.”

From within the house, she heard the faint sound of Priscilla singing. Fragments of the lyrics reached her, and she felt a moment of relief that she was outside instead of in there for the grand debut of their song about ‘the Lady of Worlds.’

“Why did you come?” she asked.

“Your father wasn’t done saving me, apparently,” he said. “Not that I’m not appreciative. Toussaint is almost another world.”

“It certainly has its own rhythm," Ciri said.

Olgierd chuckled. “Still not far enough, but it will do for now.”

“What will you do next?” Ciri asked.

“I might look into abandoned properties in the area,” he said. “Put my feet up and stay a while. Geralt mentioned there was a bandit problem. Perhaps a former ataman of a pack of glorified bandits might be of use ridding the duchy of its infestation.”

“I know the area,” Ciri found herself saying unexpectedly. “If you need someone to show you around, I can do it.”

Olgierd looked genuinely surprised by the offer. “That’s kind of you. My thanks.”

“It’s nothing,” Ciri dismissed. “Triss wants to look at elven ruins. We can do both at the same time.”

Olgierd nodded and reached for the dagger in his belt. Ciri took an instinctive half step back, but he merely pulled it loose, scabbard and all, and held it out to her. "Happy birthday," he said. 

She took it from his scarred hands and examined it. The scabbard was beautifully decorated with scrolling silver filigree, a match for the short crossguard, which had a single pink sapphire embedded in the center. The hilt was wrapped in rich, dark brown leather. She unsheathed it to reveal a curved, mirror-bright blade with a single edge.

“A trinket from my days of misadventure,” Olgierd said with a small, self-deprecating smile. “May it serve you well on the Path.”

A dagger like this was no mere trinket, but she didn’t challenge him on the fiction. It would indeed serve her well.

“Thank you,” she said quietly. “Will you come back in?”

“Nay,” he said. “I fear I’m not fit for company at the moment. Give my apologies to Geralt, will you? I’ll stay out here with the stars.”

Suddenly feeling like she was intruding, she retreated to the house, dagger clutched in her hands.

* * *

Eskel rode on to Brugge the morning after Belleteyn. Priscilla and Dandelion waited until nightfall to make their departure, Dandelion hidden under his heavy scarf once more. Lambert and Keira relocated to an inn in the heart of Beauclair, declaring that they were on holiday and not to be disturbed. With only Triss and Olgierd left as house guests, Corvo Bianco fell back into its regular rhythms, and Ciri rode out with them daily.

They’d thoroughly explored the southern part of the duchy over the past two days, finding an abandoned home that was perhaps a bit too thoroughly abandoned for Olgierd, and several promising ruins for Triss. Today, they searched the eastern side.

Ciri glanced behind her at her companions. It was interesting, she thought, how appearances both deceived and told the truth. Triss, in her high-necked linen shirt and leather doublet, flowing dark red hair unbound, appeared a pale, lightly freckled young woman of no more than twenty rather than a dangerous sorceress in her late fifties, an advisor to kings, and the successful former leader of Novigrad’s mage underground during the pogrom a few years prior. Olgierd, heavily scarred and dressed in traditional Redanian finery, had a dangerous, rakish look, but the calm, slightly wistful air about him held no such aura. Unlike Triss, Olgierd wore his past and present on his face, on his body. For him, there was no hiding it.

Triss spurred her spirited blue roan closer to Ciri. “We’ve been all over the eastern part of the duchy, and there are hardly any elven ruins. Should we call it a day and head back to the villa?”

“It’s barely mid-afternoon,” Ciri protested. “Besides, we’re out here looking at real estate for Olgierd as well.”

Olgierd’s massive liver chestnut gelding nudged his nose between their two horses. “The hunting cottage in the Caroberta woods we rode by yesterday looked attractive,” he said, and smiled at the flat, unamused look Triss shot him.

“It was infested with barghests.”

“All houses come with their own challenges.”

“I hadn’t realized your standards were so low,” Triss said. “Should we go back to Fort Ussar and the slyzard nests?”

“Despite that generous offer, I must decline,” Olgierd said. “My needs, few though they are, still can’t be met without a roof, four walls, and a door.”

“Then we press on,” Ciri said. “Ruins for Triss, a home for Olgierd.”

She gently steered Zephyr right at the intersection, directing her toward the abandoned Casteldaccia estate. Triss and Olgierd followed at her heels.

“You’re Redanian,” Triss said to Olgierd as they walked along under the warm May sun.

“What gave it away?” Olgierd asked. “Was it the accent? It can’t have been the robe.”

Triss laughed and continued, “I just meant to say, I understand the urge to leave Redania behind. You’d have to pay me a fortune to return to Novigrad.”

“If the Church of the Eternal Fire and its witch hunters were to all keel over and die of apoplexy, I doubt many tears would be shed,” Olgierd said. “The damage they did will be felt for years to come.”

“How did you avoid the purges?” Triss asked. “A Redanian, a mage – you should have been in the thick of it.”

“Ah, but my interest in the Art is largely theoretical, while my ability to swing a saber and lead a company of cutthroats is not,” Olgierd countered. “So long as the ataman of the Redanian Free Company pointed his blade at the Temerians or Nilfgaardians and did nothing too obviously magical, I and my people were left to our own unsavory devices.”

Triss looked upon Olgierd with new eyes, sharp and assessing, cataloging his many visible scars, the gold ring in his ear, and the way he sat in his saddle like he’d been born in it. “You led a raider group?”

Olgierd scratched the deep and curving scar on the side of his skull. “Every noble family has its foibles. I hear some collect spoons or Witcher relics. The von Everecs were raiders, financed by the crown to harry the borders.”

From what Ciri heard, the Free Company did its harrying within Redania’s borders, too, but it was Olgierd’s story, not hers.

Ciri could see the questions dancing in Triss’ cornflower blue eyes, but all she said was, “Geralt meets interesting people.”

“That he does, my dear,” Olgierd said. He pulled lightly on his gelding’s reins, urging him to halt. “This is Casteldaccia, I take it?”

The “this” in question was an abandoned estate ringed in bristling sharpened stakes. Geralt had driven bandits out twice now, and it seemed like the lesson had finally stuck.

“Yes, this is it,” Ciri said. “Come on. We’ll have to break down doors to have a look about.”

“How’s your Aard these days?” Triss asked.

“Lousy. Did Lady Yennefer ever tell you of the time she was teaching me Aard, and I accidentally blew up a shed instead of knocking over a picnic basket?”

Triss laughed. “I’m afraid that story made the rounds a few times.”

“Well, there you have it,” Ciri said, leading the way through the open archway. “Unless it’s teleportation, I’m completely useless when it comes to magic.”

They led the horses to a hitching post outside the main house and tied them securely in place before going off to check the door.

“We can always kick it down and blame it on the bandits,” Ciri said, eyeing the handle. From the looks of it, the bandits had tried and failed to break in earlier.

“That’s the spirit,” Olgierd said. “There’s nothing like wanton destruction of someone else’s property in pursuit of lost knowledge.”

Ciri and Triss both whipped around to glare at him only to find him chuckling, hands raised. “There’s no need to damage the door further; I have lock picks.”

He went back to his horse to rummage through the saddlebags, and Triss leaned over to ask Ciri quietly, “How exactly did Geralt meet him?”

“He saved him from a demon of some sort,” Ciri said, deliberately vague. “It was apparently quite difficult.”

“Hmm.”

“Here we are,” Olgierd said, returning to their side with lock picks in hand. “Now, let’s see about this door.”

It was the work of no more than a minute before the tumblers fell into place, but Olgierd still had to give the door a hard shove to open it thanks to the damage from the bandits. “Well now, isn’t this different?”

There were sheets draped over all the furniture, and dust rose in the air in cloudy plumes as they entered. But the interesting thing – the unusual thing – was the giant, inactive portal against the wall of the dining room right as they entered.

“There’s your elven ruin, Triss,” Ciri said. She walked to its base and looked up at the decorative, twining branches framing the portal. It was big enough to ride a horse through. She looked back at the front door, considering.

“Here’s the power crystal,” Triss said, placing the fallen gem back in its holder. “ _Aenye_ ,” she intoned, and flames shot from her hand to envelop the crystal.

The portal lit up instantly, a cold blue shot through with an eerie green light.

“Where do you suppose it goes?” Triss asked. “I don’t want us teleporting into a drowner nest by accident.”

“It could go anywhere on the Continent,” Olgierd said. “We may avoid a drowner nest only to land in Hierarch Hemmelfart’s private bath.”

Ciri snickered. “I’ll take the drowners, thanks. But you know, it could go elsewhere.”

A spark came into Olgierd’s blue-green eyes. “Beyond the Continent?”

She nodded. “Beyond this world, even.”

“Right, I’ll unload the horses – unless you think we’ll need them,” he said. He gave the doorway the same considering look Ciri had. “Miss Merigold, how is _your_ Aard?”

“We can’t just go!” Triss protested. “Anything could be on the other side. We need to go back to Corvo Bianco and tell Geralt and Yenna first.”

The humming of the portal increased in pitch slightly, and they all turned to see something small fly out in a gentle arc and land at Ciri’s feet.

“Is that a scroll?” Triss asked as Ciri picked it up and unfurled it.

“No, it’s a letter – listen. ‘To whoever receives this, greetings from House Trevelyan of the Free Marches. With luck, we have reached a trustworthy mage on the Continent. Our situation is dire. Templars, an arm of the Chantry, hunt free mages across Ferelden and Orlais. We have mages here in our estate in Ostwick seeking shelter, but at any moment our ability to offer them succor may be ripped away. We seek the aid of the sorcerers and sorceresses of the Continent. Is it safe to send over our mages? Yours in faith, Lord Declan Trevelyan of Ostwick.’”

The wall to the side of the door exploded outward, and Ciri looked up to see fierce resolve written across Triss’ face. “Let’s get the horses.”

She looked to Olgierd. The spark in his eyes was burning brightly, and for the first time since she'd met him, he seemed truly engaged in the world. "How is it that the people on the other side of the portal, in this other world, know our language?” he asked. “It seems unlikely.”

Ciri shrugged. “From the sound of it, this Lord Trevelyan has prior knowledge of the Continent. But I’ve never had trouble understanding people in other worlds. It may be a function of the magic of the portals.”

“Fascinating,” he murmured, and with a last look at the portal, followed Triss out the blown-out hole in the wall to gather his horse.

Ciri took a moment to look around the dining room for something to write with. The fireplace hadn’t been lit for years, but there were still soft lumps of charcoal within it, and she took a piece and wrote on the back of Lord Trevelyan’s letter, “We’re coming through to discuss this in person. We’ll be there shortly. Yours, C. & co.”

She rolled the letter up tightly and threw it back through the portal, then joined her companions by the hitching post. Triss was looking through her saddlebags, frowning, and Olgierd was stroking his gelding’s neck looking quite unconcerned.

“If we get trapped there, I only have enough food for a day,” Triss announced, turning away from her saddlebags. “And I don’t have a blanket or a change of clothing.”

“I wouldn’t worry too much,” Ciri said. “It sounds like we’ll be traveling straight to a nobleman’s estate. And if things go wrong, I never leave home with less than a week’s worth of food and two changes of clothing. You’re welcome to borrow a shirt.”

“Aside from a few items in your parents’ villa and my gold in the bank, all I own is with me now,” Olgierd said. “I’m ready for whatever awaits us.”

“Then let’s be off. It sounded urgent.” Ciri untied Zephyr from the hitching post and swung up onto her back, guiding her gently with rein and nudging knees through the blasted out wall and around the covered furniture to stand in front of the humming portal.

Zephyr stood calm in front of the eerie gate, well used to Ciri's unorthodox method of travel. Behind her, Triss and Olgierd's horses snorted and shifted in agitation.

“I’ll go first,” Ciri said. “Triss, I’ll take the lead in dealing with Lord Trevelyan until we meet the mages. You’ve never been to another world before. Let me assess its similarities and differences, its dangers.”

“So long as the mages get our help,” Triss agreed.

Ciri looked over her shoulder to see Olgierd lay a hand on his saber hilt and nod to Triss reassuringly.

“If the problem is political, we’ll be cunning,” Olgierd said. “If it’s violent, we’ll use fire and force. At the very least, we can take their mages and run.”

“Between the three of us, I doubt there’s anything we can’t handle,” Ciri added.

Triss squared her shoulders and nodded. “Right.”

Ciri lightly dug her heels into Zephyr’s sides, and her brave little mare stepped forward through the humming, glowing portal into another world.

* * *

_"Pierogi with Cheese" is a Ukrainian folk song_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for your feedback! I like knowing I've entertained you with an update.


	2. Trevelyans and Talks

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ciri, Triss, and Olgierd pass through the portal into Thedas. The Trevelyans need help only Triss can provide, but she has her reservations.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> beta-read by brightspot149. Thank you!

The portal opened into a small, enclosed courtyard hemmed in by ivy-covered stone walls. At the far end stood a pale, richly dressed man of middle age, red hair going gray at the temples, with three younger men and a young woman, also well-dressed and similarly complected, and a handful of liveried guards. Ciri walked Zephyr another few paces to make room for Triss and Olgierd to follow, then dismounted.

“Greetings,” the nobleman called. She watched him look her over carefully, from her beautiful and very functional armor to her two swords, both strapped to her back, to the wolf’s head medallion at her neck and the jeweled dagger at her waist. “Are you the ‘C’ of ‘C. and co’?”

A muted clatter of heavy hooves behind her let her know that Olgierd’s enormous gelding had followed first, and one of the nobleman’s guards took an instinctive step back. Two others dropped their hands to their swords.

“I am,” Ciri replied. “You must be Lord Declan Trevelyan.”

Olgierd swung down gracefully beside her as Triss exited the portal.

“And is this the last member of your company?”

“There were only the three of us present when your letter came through,” Ciri said. “We thought it would be best to come right away, given the urgency of your message.”

The sole woman smiled and inclined her head graciously. “We appreciate the help, truly.”

“My children,” Lord Trevelyan said, indicating the well-dressed men and woman with an outstretched hand. “Liam, my heir –”

“A pleasure,” Liam murmured, bowing slightly. He was the very image of his father, tall and redheaded with pale blue eyes and laugh lines.

“Owain, my second son –”

A handsome blond giant of a man, well over six and a half feet tall, bowed next. Ciri thought he looked kind, and perhaps tired.

“Maxwell, my youngest child –”

Another blue-eyed redhead, this one lanky and young. He hardly seemed any older than Ciri. He smiled as he bowed, looking the three of them over curiously.

“And my third child and only daughter, Evelyn, a former Circle mage.”

Evelyn, blonde, blue-eyed, and delicate, bobbed a shallow curtsy. “Mother – Lady Corin Trevelyan – is with Liam’s wife and children in the manor,” she said. “You may meet them later.”

“Welcome to Ostwick,” Lord Trevelyan said, “a city-state of the Free Marches in the continent of Thedas.”

Ciri nodded. “Allow me to introduce myself and my companions, my lord. I am Cirilla of Vengerberg, daughter of Sir Geralt of Rivia and Lady Yennefer of Vengerberg, and a Witcher of the School of the Wolf. This is Lord Olgierd von Everec of Redania, a former cavalry officer of the Redanian Free Company. And this is Triss Merigold of Maribor, sorceress and magical advisor to King Tankred Thyssen of Kovir and Poviss.”

Olgierd scoffed under his breath, too quietly for the Trevelyans and their guards to hear. No doubt he took exception to her revision of his past exploits.

“We’re honored to have such distinguished guests,” Lord Trevelyan said, giving Ciri’s medallion a closer look.

“First things first, you should take the power crystal from its socket,” Ciri advised, pointing to the gem in the wall beside the active portal. “You don’t need to lose people in our world, or for people to stumble accidentally into yours.”

Lord Trevelyan nodded at a guard, who skirted their party and carefully removed the crystal. The portal abruptly went silent and dark.

“We can have the guards stable your horses for you, Lady Cirilla, Lord Olgierd, Mistress Merigold,” Liam offered. “The discussion about the mages would be best continued indoors.”

“Possibly over a strong drink,” the young one, Maxwell, added.

Ciri gave her assent, and three guards came forth to collect the horses. Interestingly, it was now Triss they watched with a wary eye, not the deadly-looking Olgierd. She filed away the observation, not sure how it connected to the mage situation but certain it did.

“Mind that you don’t stand too close to Ifrit’s haunches when you stable him,” Olgierd told the guard who took his gelding’s reins. “He kicks.”

“Don’t worry about your bags; my people are trustworthy,” Lord Trevelyan said. “If you need to stay the night, we’ll have rooms made up and bring your belongings up to them.”

“We accept your offer of hospitality,” Ciri said after exchanging a swift look with Triss and Olgierd.

_Lady Yennefer would be so proud. I’ve used a year’s worth of courtesy in less than ten minutes, and I don’t yet see an end in sight._

They followed the Trevelyans and their remaining guards out of the courtyard and down a narrow, trellised path that led out into a wide front yard with high walls. To their left was a great stone manor. To their right, perhaps seventy yards away, was the main gate. Ciri squinted. It was barred shut from the inside.

“Back to your duties, men,” Lord Trevelyan said, dismissing his guards, and took them up to the great double doors of the manor house.

Within it was airy and cool, with lofty ceilings and white plaster walls. The hall was lit with covered sconces that flickered with a warm yellow light. They got a glimpse of servants scurrying about the great hall as they passed – _were those the elves of this world? How strange they looked!_ – and then they went up the stairs and down the long gallery lined all the portraits of Trevelyans of ages past. Ciri jumped as Triss grabbed her arm.

“Look!”

Ciri followed her gaze and understood immediately. The woman in the portrait, despite the heavy, unfamiliar noblewoman’s dress and hairstyle, had the sort of face she’d recognize anywhere on the Continent. Pale, prominent cheekbones, sharp chin, light, fox-like eyes, pointed ears….

“How long ago did she come through, your Aen Seidhe ancestor?” Ciri asked.

“Three hundred and thirty years ago,” Evelyn said. “Family legend said that Lord Ioan Trevelyan caught her as she fell from an enchanted mirror, and as their eyes met, they both fell in love.”

“Love at first sight or not, it was a scandal that took generations for our family to recover from,” Liam said. “Nobles could understand an elf as a mistress, but not as a wife.”

“Lady Iori Trevelyan – Iori aep Mora,” Owain added fondly. “But to us, Grandmother. She died four years ago, not long after the mage rebellion began.”

Evelyn reached out and touched the portrait frame with a gentle hand. “She told us to get the portal working again, but we never could. We tried every day.”

“The crystal had fallen on our side,” Triss said. “It wasn’t anything you were doing wrong.”

Evelyn smiled, bright and joyful. “Yes, and what luck that you activated it right as we were trying again!”

“This way, children, honored guests,” Lord Declan said. “We’ll have plenty of time to tell stories of Grandmother Iori later.”

As they resumed walking, Ciri noticed that all four siblings touched Iori aep Mora’s portrait frame the way pilgrims rubbed the foot of the statue of Saint Lebioda in Toussaint. For comfort, perhaps, or luck, or simply to remember her presence. She wished she could have met Iori aep Mora, or Iori Trevelyan. Her insight into this world would have been invaluable.

The journey ended in a handsomely furnished withdrawing room dominated by tall lead glass windows and heavy upholstered oak furniture. Two women in fine gowns, one pale, statuesque, blonde, and middle-aged, the other slender and black-haired, with warm brown skin and not quite thirty in appearance, watched over two black-haired children in somewhat sturdier play clothes who seemed quite intent on the notes they were making on a long roll of parchment. The girl looked to be perhaps ten years of age, and the boy seven or so.

“Papa!” the boy exclaimed, breaking off from his play with the girl and running to Liam.

Liam grabbed him beneath the armpits and threw him gently in the air, catching him and setting him back on his feet. “Were you good for Mama and Grandmother?”

“He was very helpful,” the girl said. “When I take over Orlais, he shall be my Vice-Chancellor of Animals.”

“We’re replacing the Council of Heralds with nugs!” the boy said with glee.

“As they squeak, so it shall be done,” the girl said solemnly.

Liam groaned. “This is your fault, Mother, I just know it. My darling, you couldn’t rein her in?”

The younger woman laughed and stood, saying with a musical accent, “ _Mi amor_ , I think our children and a Council of Nugs would do a far better job running Orlais than the Empress and the Grand Duke.”

The blonde woman joined them, plans for conquering Orlais in hand. “Give it a week and they’ll move on to Orzammar, dear. Or Tevinter, or Nevarra.” She passed the scroll to the girl, who accepted it with the gravity of someone receiving court documents of great sensitivity. “An excellent first try, Delphine, though I wouldn’t lean so heavily on blackmail if I were you. And consider how you’ll raise and maintain your invading army. Family connections can only get you so far.”

“Yes, Grandmother,” Delphine said, nodding hard.

“ _Mother!_ ”

“Oh, calm down, Liam," Lady Trevelyan said. "It's a good mental exercise."

Liam shook his head and turned to Ciri. “Lady Cirilla of Vengerberg, Lord Olgierd von Everec, Mistress Triss Merigold, allow me to introduce my mother, Lady Corin Trevelyan, my wife, Lady Alondra Trevelyan, and our children, Delphine and Lucian.”

“I’m Luke!” Lucian interrupted, sticking out his small hand to shake.

“A pleasure to meet you all,” Ciri said, taking his hand in hers. “Please call me Ciri, all of you.”

“You’re here to solve our mage dilemma, I take it?” Lady Trevelyan said, looking Ciri and her companions up and down assessingly. “Well, you certainly look capable. Perhaps it’s naive of me, but I always thought that people from another world would look more foreign.”

“In my experience, humans can be found almost everywhere, on a great many worlds,” Ciri said. “Magic as well.”

“Fascinating,” Lord Trevelyan said as he pulled a heavy silk cord by the door. “You’ll have to tell us of your adventures over supper, once we’ve finished discussing the mage situation.”

Maxwell went to a cabinet by the large desk looking out through the windows and took out several stemmed crystal glasses and a dark bottle. He gestured to Ciri with the bottle, and she nodded. Triss nodded as well.

“I’ll have a splash,” Olgierd said.

As Maxwell poured the wine, a small figure in a neat, plain gown entered the room silently. Ciri looked her over, intensely curious. She’d barely glimpsed the elven servants in the great hall on the way up.

The woman was slight and narrow of frame, with doe-like eyes and long, tapered ears. She barely came to Ciri’s chin – though in fairness Ciri was tall for a woman. But the Aen Seidhe back home were lean and strong, and quite tall, taller than the average human. And the Aen Elle of Tir ná Lia were monstrously tall, seven feet and more.

She couldn’t help feeling that the elves of this world were somehow diminished. It seemed an unfair thought. The maid appeared happy; she was straight-backed and met her employers’ eyes, looked well-fed and clean. She banished the thought to the back of her mind.

“Ah, Bryony, always so prompt,” Lord Trevelyan said. “Please take the children down to the library for their lessons with Leander.”

Bryony curtsied and held out her hands to the children. "At once, milord, and Cook wants to know if she's cooking for your three guests as well as the usual diners."

Ciri glanced out the window at the early evening sun. “I suppose we’ll have to impose upon your hospitality, Lord Trevelyan.”

“Three more for supper, Bryony, and tell Cook they’ll be seated with the family as guests of honor,” Lady Trevelyan said.

“Very good, milady. Come with me, you two,” Bryony said cheerfully.

The children left with minimal fussing, and the remaining adults arrayed themselves in the chairs and couches around the room. Maxwell came about with the glasses on a silver tray and delivered everyone's refreshment before taking the empty seat beside his sister.

Ciri sipped appreciatively at the deep golden liquid in her glass. It was slightly sweet, but not cloying, with hints of caramel and dried fig.

“That’s a lovely drop,” Olgierd said. “What I wouldn’t give for a bottle to take back to Corvo Bianco for your father.”

“Mm, yes, he’s become quite the connoisseur of late.”

Owain leaned forward. “Corvo Bianco? I thought you were from Vengerberg, or Rivia.”

“Corvo Bianco is a villa bestowed upon my father for deeds performed for the duchy of Toussaint,” Ciri explained, opting to skip over the entirety of Geralt’s near-deadly encounter with a higher vampire and the murderous rampage of lesser vampires through the streets of Beauclair. “He and my mother live there now. Toussaint is lovely, and he spends more time overseeing the vineyards and the wine production than swinging a sword these days.”

“I would be honored for you to take my Antivan _Madère_ to your vintner father, Lady Ciri,” Alondra said. “I’m certain we have another bottle in the kitchen pantry downstairs.”

“If you like, I believe I have a bottle of Sepremento – the wine from our family vineyard – in my saddlebags,” Ciri said. “I’d be happy to share it with you all over supper.”

“It’s agreed,” Lady Trevelyan said. “One bottle of Antivan fortified wine for a bottle of Sepremento. Now, to business.”

“We’re going to help, of course,” Triss said. “But we need information.”

“That letter of yours spoke of a military arm of a religious organization hunting mages,” Olgierd said. “You also spoke of ‘free’ mages. Are mages not normally so?”

“Yes, and why would this religion hunt the mages?” Ciri asked.

“To understand the plight of mages in Thedas we must go back to the founding of Andrastianism, and to the Chant of Light,” Evelyn began.

“‘Magic exists to serve man, never to rule over him,’” Owain interrupted, quite obviously quoting from something. He had a look of mild derision on his handsome face. “‘Foul and corrupt are they who have taken His gift and turned it against His children. They shall be named Maleficar, accursed ones. They shall find no rest in this world or beyond.’”

“He would know the Chant better than the rest of us,” Maxwell said, sipping his wine. “He’s the former Templar.”

“One of us had to do it, brother, and it wasn’t going to be the weedy academic.”

"Anyway," Evelyn said, cutting off Maxwell's retort, "the Tevinter Imperium to the north is ruled by mages. They practice slavery and sacrificial blood magic. Andraste went to war against the Imperium. Distrust of mages and magic is enshrined in the Chant of Light. The Divine who followed after her, the religious leader of our faith, called for mages to be kept isolated from the public, for their safety and ours. Templars, men and women with the ability to cancel magic, followed after, and became glorified prison guards over the centuries."

“Glorified prison guards with too much power,” Owain said. “Abuse is commonplace in mage towers. Starkhaven wasn’t too bad; I was there until it burned down, then they transferred me to Markham. I didn’t mind it there. At the very least, I made it work. I got good at putting myself between a bad Templar and a mage they wanted to harass. It’s not hard when you’re taller than everyone by a head.”

“And if the abuse wasn’t bad enough, a Templar Knight-Commander can get permission from the Grand Cathedral to annul a mage tower,” Evelyn said. “Every mage, from the oldest enchanter to the youngest apprentice, put to the sword, with no mercy or reprieve.”

“It’s an open secret that some Knight-Commanders have only sought permission after an annulment,” Owain said. “Like in Kirkwall. Thank the Maker for the Champion. That would have been a bloodbath otherwise.”

“That's where it started, the mage uprising and the Circles rebelling," Maxwell said. "An apostate blew up the Kirkwall Chantry, and the Champion of Kirkwall sided with the mages when Kirkwall's Knight-Commander called for the Rite of Annulment on the city's Circle of Magi. The Champion – Hawke – fled the city with the apostate in the aftermath, and they went from tower to tower, encouraging others to throw off their bonds."

“Then there was the matter of the Lord Seeker dissolving the College of Enchanters, and the College of Enchanters voting to break away from the Chantry,” Evelyn said.

Ciri held up her hand. “What are Seekers, what is the College of Enchanters, and is there a difference between towers and circles?”

"A mage tower is a physical structure," Evelyn said. "A Circle of Magi is both the tower and the people within it."

“Understood. Go on.”

“The College of Enchanters is made up of the mages holding the rank of enchanter who are members of a fraternity. The Aequitarians, the Loyalists, and the Libertarians are the three most common. They meet – or used to meet – to discuss matters related to the Circles.”

Ciri shook her head slightly at Triss, seeing her interest in the fraternities. She could dig into the mage politics of this world later. It was tangential to what they needed to know now.

“And Seekers are an order separate from the Templars,” Owain said. “They’re meant to watch over the Templars and keep an eye out for corruption. They don’t do a very good job of it, in my opinion.”

“You’ve mentioned ranks for both mages and Templars,” Triss said. “What are they?”

“For the Templars, there are initiates, Templars, knight-corporals, knight-lieutenants, knight-captains, knight-commanders, knights-divine, and knights-vigilant,” Owain said, “though the highest rank you’d usually see at a mage tower was knight-commander. I was a knight-lieutenant, myself.”

“And for mages, we have apprentices, mages, enchanters, senior enchanters, first enchanters, and the grand enchanter,” Evelyn said. “There are also apostates, mages who’ve managed to escape Chantry oversight, and the Tranquil, which is a horror story best saved for another time.”

“How old are your apprentices and initiates?” Ciri asked, ignoring that bit about the Tranquil for the time being.

“It depends how devout the family is, honestly,” Owain said. “Some give their children over to the Templar Order at birth. And apprentices? The youngest I’ve seen was five. That age varies by when their magic comes in.”

Triss sat up sharply. “When their magic ‘comes in?’”

Evelyn cocked her head at Triss. “Of course. Magic is inborn in this world. We must be taught to control it once it manifests. The dangers of an untrained mage are catastrophic.”

“Don’t forget the demons,” Maxwell said ‘helpfully.’ Ciri was starting to get the feeling that the youngest Trevelyan enjoyed needling his older siblings.

Now it was Olgierd who took an interest. “Demons?”

“There’s a spirit realm that can only be reached through dreams, or through summoning spells,” Evelyn said. “The minds of mages are more open to spirits and demons, dangerously so. In dreams, and in times of great emotional upheaval, demons will try to tempt or trick mages into letting them possess their bodies so that they can slip through to the physical world. The damage that a possessed mage can do is...well, let’s just say there’s a reason a possessed mage is called an ‘abomination.’”

Triss swallowed the rest of her _Madère_ in one great gulp, got up from the couch, and walked back to the desk to refill her glass. She stood, back to the rest of them, and drank slowly.

Ciri completely understood. An entire world of Sources was hard to credit, and more than a bit terrifying.

When her glass was empty again, Triss turned and looked around the room, meeting the eyes of the Trevelyans with a deadly serious expression. “Your magic is inborn, difficult to control, and made worse by strong emotions?”

“Yes,” Evelyn said.

“Is it inherited? Does it run in family lines?”

“We have a mage in our family almost every generation,” Lord Trevelyan said. “Thus the need to send a child to the Templars or the chantry to keep prying eyes from looking too closely at us. The appearance of piety goes a long way.”

“We have Sources in our world as well,” Triss said. “Some go mad. Others lose control of their power and devastate their surroundings – entire towns have been wiped out by Sources with no control over their magic. Even more are unscrupulously taken advantage of by sorcerers and sorceresses looking to boost their own magic.”

“Are there any who lead happy lives?” Evelyn asked, her already pale face turned white from Triss’ recitation.

“I do,” Ciri said. All eyes turned to her. “I can’t use conventional magic, and I’ve chosen a warrior’s path over a sorceress’, but I’m happy. But Triss speaks truly. Sources on the Continent are both _a_ danger and _in_ danger unless they have their magic under control.”

Olgierd cut in. “I suspect we’re approaching this from the wrong direction. Lady Evelyn, how much magic do you believe the average mage of Thedas has at their disposal?”

“Oh, not that much,” she said, sitting back. “Perhaps enough to cast an arcane bolt or fireball from behind a spell shield.”

“Not overflowing with massive amounts of magical potential, then,” Olgierd said.

“Not usually, no.”

Ciri could see Triss lose some of the tension in her shoulders. “Could you be more specific about the level and type of destruction an untrained mage can cause?” the sorceress asked.

“Accidentally burning down a house or a barn is fairly common,” Owain said. “A little mage child’s magic manifests, the child panics and summons fire, the barn burns down, and the Templars are summoned.”

“So no shaking a castle to its foundations with a scream or the like,” Ciri said. “Or prophesying death in a trance.”

Evelyn looked at Ciri, startled. “Neither of those. Maker.”

“You’ll be relieved to hear that the demonic plane in our world cannot be reached through dreams,” Olgierd told Evelyn. “Demons are content to stay where they are and must be summoned to our world for them to manifest.” His lips pressed together, and he said nothing more. Ciri didn’t fault him for it. Master Mirror was only perhaps a demon. The entity defied categorization altogether. Warning the Trevelyans would likely only serve to draw the being’s attention.

“Alright, so you’re Source-like, but not a Source,” Triss said. “That helps. But you should know that we’ve had our own troubles on the Continent with Witch Hunters.”

“It’s in the past,” Ciri hurried to say, seeing dismay cross Evelyn’s face.

“We’re still recovering,” Triss said. “A lot of good men and women were killed in the pogrom before it finally ended. Aretuza and Ban Ard Academy, our two schools of magic, were overrun and destroyed. They’re being rebuilt, but it will be a few years until construction is complete.”

“Use Casteldaccia,” Ciri suggested. “Get Keira Metz and Margarita Laux-Antille involved, buy the estate, and turn it into a temporary school and boarding house until Aretuza and Ban Ard Academy are reconstructed.”

Triss nodded hesitantly, then more firmly. “That could work. Margarita would be happy to help teach young mages – how old are the mages who want to come to our world?”

“We have seventeen in all; twelve apprentices under fourteen, four recently Harrowed mages between twenty and twenty-five, and one enchanter in her forties, Enchanter Honora," Evelyn said. "There are also two other former Templars in residence who came from Markham with Owain: Knight-Lieutenant Raúl de Medina and Knight-Corporal Rona Fisher."

“Evelyn, the other Templars, and I will stay behind,” Owain said. “We still have business in Thedas.”

“You may be able to help with that as well,” Lord Trevelyan said. “But later.”

“I’d like to meet your mages after supper,” Triss said. “If they can learn a spell from our world, even just a simple Witcher sign, then I’ll feel more comfortable introducing foreign magic to the Continent.”

“Of course,” Evelyn said graciously. “They’re all eager scholars, and I’m sure they’ll do their best.”

Lady Trevelyan stood, and the rest of them followed suit. “Shall we go down to supper?”

“A splendid idea, darling,” Lord Trevelyan said, offering his wife his arm. “I hear Cook made roast duck.”

* * *

Ciri sat on the edge of her borrowed bed in the guest wing of the Trevelyan estate in a soft crimson lambswool shirt and black linen trousers, her armor on a stand in the corner of the room.

Supper had been exceptional. They'd sat on the dais with the family, Ciri between Lord Trevelyan and Owain – both excellent conversationalists – and servants brought out courses of purslane salad with soft white cheese, white bread and salted butter, potato and leek potage, and then the roast duck. The meat course was elevated to even greater heights by the Corvo Bianco Sepremento, a robust, rich red wine. She accepted the Trevelyan's compliments on Geralt's behalf, promising to convey them to her adoptive father later.

Arrayed on two long trestle tables below the dais were the household staff, the family retainers, and the resident mages and Templars. Word had spread quickly that the mysterious guests had come through the portal meant to take the mages to safety in another realm, and the youngest apprentices had been all but bouncing in their seats.

Many of them were children. The youngest was barely older than Luke, future Vice-Chancellor of Animals to his would-be conqueror sister. The mages in their early twenties had sat in a bunch and shot quick, darting looks up at the dais, meeting Triss’ gaze and immediately looking back down and whispering to each other furiously. The adult enchanter had been engaged in intense conversation with one of the Templars, a man with light brown skin, curly black hair and a neat goatee, a clever look in his deep brown eyes.

The other Templar, the woman, was pale as milk, with stick-straight brown hair pulled back in a bun and bright blue eyes. She had been seated amidst the apprentices and seemed to have been attempting to keep them from levitating with excitement.

Triss slipped through the doorway, still wearing her trousers from today but in Ciri’s spare cream-colored linen shirt. She sat beside her and sighed. “Long day.”

“They’re only going to get longer, I fear,” Ciri said. “We’ve signed on for quite a lot of work.”

“Do you think we’re doing the right thing, bringing them to the Continent?” Triss asked. “Introducing foreign magical bloodlines to our world? Iori aep Mora proves our people and theirs can interbreed.”

Ciri shook her head. “Their magic may be compatible. You’ll find that out for yourself soon enough.”

“But it might not.”

“Don’t borrow trouble, Merigold,” Olgierd drawled from the doorway. He leaned against the door frame with an insouciance Ciri envied. “If it is, it is. If it isn’t, it isn’t. We’ll set that bridge alight when we get to it.”

“You seem to be enjoying yourself,” Triss said. There was a note in her voice that fell just shy of accusatory.

“Me? I admit I'm having a grand time," Olgierd said. "I've left the Continent, left the world, for an entirely new experience. The people are stalwart and honest, the food is delicious, and their taste in alcohol is to be commended. I think I may stay a while."

“Look into real estate?” Ciri joked.

Olgierd laughed. It was more of a chuckle, really, but it transformed his whole face. “Look into real estate.”

“I’ll need to talk to Margarita and Keira soon,” Triss said. “And Ciri, you should go back tonight and have Geralt and Yenna secure the portal in Casteldaccia.”

“Perhaps pack a bag for Miss Merigold while you’re there,” Olgierd said.

“Do you want anything from the villa?” Ciri asked.

“Your father’s bard friend, Dandelion, restrung an old lute I picked up at a shop in Beauclair,” Olgierd said. “It might be nice to have that here.”

Ciri stood and grabbed the gifted bottle of _Madère_ from the nightstand. “I’ll do that. And Triss – when you do talk to Margarita, don’t mention my name. I don’t want any word of my involvement getting back to the Lodge of Sorceresses.”

Triss frowned. “If Margarita comes through, it’ll be hard to keep your part in all this secret.”

“I faked my death for a reason, Triss. Margarita might not tell Emperor Emhyr, but can you say the same for Philippa or Fringilla?" Ciri took a deep breath, suddenly angry and wishing she weren’t. "I forgave you for your part in what the Lodge tried to do to me when I was younger. But if Emhyr finds out I'm alive because you told the wrong people, and Geralt and Yennefer suffer for it, I don't think I'll ever forgive you for _that_.”

“ _Ciri_ –”

“I'll be back with your clothes and your lute."

She took a single step, reaching for the power within her, and projected herself _into_ and _through_ the emptiness between worlds and time.

When her foot touched the ground again, it was sunny, mid-afternoon once more, and she stood at the doorway of Corvo Bianco's main house. She let herself in and found Geralt at the table playing cards with the majordomo. She took a moment to just drink in the sight of his pale, weather-beaten face, scarred and golden-eyed, white hair tied behind his head in a horsetail. Here at home, he forewent armor, wearing only a loose white linen shirt and dark trousers and boots. If one didn't know better, they might assume the majordomo was the master of the estate in his embroidered doublet.

“I’ve taken a contract,” she announced. “Possibly. Triss has, definitely. It’s in another world.”

Geralt set his hand of cards down and stood from the table. “Weren’t you just looking for elven ruins and abandoned villas?”

“We found both,” Ciri said. “There was a portal in Casteldaccia that we activated that led to another world. There are mages there who need assistance. Triss has pledged her help. I’ve agreed to stay, and Olgierd –”

“Olgierd is enjoying the novelty,” Geralt finished.

“Yes, but he’s also quite insightful, and an excellent traveling companion,” Ciri defended.

Geralt raised his eyebrows at her. “You’ve changed your tune.”

“I can’t help it,” she said, shrugging. “There’s something about him. You were right. He did deserve a second chance. He seems to be taking to it well.”

“I’m glad he’s at your back, then,” Geralt said. “He’s nearly as good a swordsman as I am, and a better rider.”

“Not a better rider than me, surely,” Ciri said.

Geralt held his hand out flat, palm down and wobbled it side to side. “Eh.”

She pushed his shoulder playfully. “You’re awful. Oh. Here,” she said, handing him the dark bottle. “Fortified wine from Thedas, the other world. It’s called _Madère_ , from the country of Antiva.”

Geralt set the bottle on the table and placed his hands on her shoulders. “How bad is the situation over there?”

“We were in a nobleman’s walled estate, so we were removed from the fighting,” Ciri admitted. “But it sounded rather dire.”

“Is that Ciri’s voice I hear?” Yennefer called. She came down the stairs with a sweep of her long black skirt, a subtle fragrance of lilacs and gooseberries drifting on the air. Her sharp violet eyes took in Ciri’s outfit in a quick glance.

“You’ve changed,” she stated, raising a straight black brow. “And we’re missing some people.”

“I left them on the other side of a portal to another world,” Ciri said. “I came back to collect some clothes for Triss, and for Olgierd’s lute.”

“Sit,” Yennefer said, taking a seat herself. “There’s clearly a story here.”

Ciri started at the beginning. She told her parents and their majordomo the entire story, from the moment they broke into the Casteldaccia estate all the way up to her return to Corvo Bianco. Nothing was left out.

“We shall have to purchase Casteldaccia,” Yennefer said when Ciri finished speaking. “Perhaps hire some guards, move men into the area. Geralt, you will ride to the Ducal Camerlengo and make the purchase with funds from my account at the bank. I will take a portal straight to Casteldaccia and see about repairing the wall.”

“I’ll round up Lambert and Keira,” Geralt said. “Keira will want to be involved in this, and where she goes, Lambert goes.”

“Perhaps it’s best that you get involved with this Trevelyan family’s ‘further business’ in Thedas while Triss reaches out to Margarita,” Yennefer said. “Being absent will offer the best anonymity.”

“I did tell them what Witchers did over supper,” Ciri said. “I suspect I’ll be offered a contract for Owain and Evelyn’s business tomorrow.”

“Good,” Yennefer said firmly. “Even something as simple as guarding a nobleman’s children will get you out of Margarita’s – and possibly Philippa’s – line of sight.”

“I do hope it’s better than that,” Ciri said. “I’ve taken on the end of multiple worlds once. Guard duty might kill me.”

“Bring Olgierd with you,” Geralt advised. “He won’t let you die of boredom.”

“That’s true,” Ciri said, brightening at the idea.

“Then we have a plan,” Yennefer said. “Geralt to Beauclair, Ciri to pack and return to Thedas, and I’ll go to Casteldaccia.”

“I’m already out the door,” Geralt said, standing from the table.

“I’d get you there faster if you’d let me send you by portal,” Yennefer said, half-teasing.

“Not happening.”

Yennefer chuckled as the door slammed behind Geralt, and she stood herself. “I’ve already packed Triss’ belongings. I’d hoped to inspire her to return to Kovir tonight.” she pointed out the neatly packed satchel partially hidden between two suits of armor near the front door. “Olgierd’s lute is in the study on the chair.”

Ciri stood as well. "Thank you. I'll make sure I come home safely."

“Of course you will,” Yennefer said, sounding supremely assured of this fact. “I have faith in you.”

“I’ll see you soon.”

“Certainly.”

Yennefer patted her shoulder lightly and walked out the door. Ciri didn’t linger to see her summon the portal to Casteldaccia. She went instead to her father’s study and found the lute, old and somewhat battered with brand new strings, and ventured upstairs to her room to collect another two shirts and three more changes of underclothes.

Her clothes in a small rolled bundle under one arm, the lute cradled in the other, she finally went to pick up Triss’ bag. She frowned. She’d been harsh. Perhaps too harsh. But the Lodge of Sorceresses was no friend to her family, and Triss’ membership had been cause for divided loyalties in the past.

 _She had to know that there were lines I wouldn’t stand to have crossed,_ Ciri thought. _Geralt and Lady Yennefer have always put me first. I must put my family first as well._

Ciri grabbed the handles of the satchel and turned to the open door. She took one step, projecting into and through the emptiness of time and space, and came out in her guest room in the Trevelyan estate not two seconds after she’d left.


	3. Spars and Conversations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ciri takes a contract to escort the youngest three Trevelyan siblings to the Conclave. She and Olgierd spar with Owain and the two Templars from Markham. Later, she has an odd conversation with Maxwell in the library.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> beta-read by brightspot149. Thank you!

Triss had dark circles under her eyes when they joined the Trevelyan family for breakfast in the solar. Olgierd, on the other hand, seemed hale and refreshed. Ciri herself felt quite well, having passed the night with marvelous dreams of past adventures. She could almost still feel the wind on her face as she woke up, so vivid was her dream of riding a unicorn at the world’s end. She looked away from Triss’ tired face and took a seat at the table. If her words from last night still bothered Triss, then perhaps she had needed to hear them.

The table was laid with cold cuts of meat and hard cheese, white bread and butter, and a platter of boiled eggs. She helped herself to some of each, accepting a pewter tankard filled to the brim with small beer from Maxwell.

“Did you sleep well?” Alondra inquired.

“Very well, thank you,” Ciri said. “I had such incredible dreams – was that your spirit realm?”

“As did I,” Olgierd said, a wistful look in his eyes. “It’s a remarkable thing, your Fade.”

Triss said nothing.

“There is beauty to be found in the Fade – the spirit world,” Evelyn said. “Spirits are drawn to those with magic, and often the spirits will reflect the mood of the dreamer.”

Breakfast passed with light chatter about inconsequential things. Ciri and Olgierd accepted an invitation to spar with Owain in the courtyard later and to meet his fellow former Templars. Triss chose instead to go down to the ballroom to get to know the mages and to begin teaching them basic spells and Witcher signs from the Continent. The children were quiet, apparently not keen on mornings, but followed the meandering conversations with open ears and sleepy eyes.

As servants entered and began to clear the dishes from the table, Lord Trevelyan looked across at Ciri and said, “I wish to hire your services as a Witcher, Lady Ciri.”

Ciri smiled. “I’m all ears, my lord.”

“The current Divine has called a Conclave in the highlands of Ferelden. She’s hosting peace talks between mages and Templars. We, as well-known faithful servants of the Chantry –”

Owain laughed under his breath, and Maxwell rolled his eyes.

“– Are invited to send members of our family as part of Ostwick’s delegation,” Lord Trevelyan continued, ignoring the byplay. “And Evelyn has a separate role to play, as Ostwick’s Circle of Magi remained neutral when the mage rebellion began, and are sending their own delegation. It took some convincing, but the Circle of Magi and Ostwick’s nobility will travel together to Haven for the Conclave.”

“When is it?”

“Two weeks from now,” Owain said. “We intend to leave in two days.”

“And what do you want from me, exactly?”

“There is a high likelihood of betrayal or double-crossing at an event where both mages and Templars are invited under a banner of peace,” Lady Trevelyan said. “Tempers will flare, accusations will be made, someone will draw a dagger or cast a spell, and a victim will lie dead in the aftermath. I expect you to bring home all three of my children, alive and in one piece.”

“All three?” Ciri asked.

“I’m going, too,” Maxwell said, raising his tankard at her in a sardonic toast. “Hurrah for weedy academics everywhere.”

“Don’t worry,” Owain said. “We’ll settle him in a tavern with a book and a drink and he’ll be easy enough to keep alive.”

“I’m like a plant,” Maxwell agreed. “Water me with wine and fertilize me with literature, and I’ll grow well.”

“I’m needed here,” Liam said, “or I’d go as well. Being Father’s heir has saddled me with more responsibilities in the city. I no longer have the freedom to go out on long journeys away from home.”

“He complains, but he is truly a gifted diplomat,” Alondra said. “The Antivan ambassador to Ostwick prefers the Trevelyan family over the rest of the city’s nobility for a reason, _mi amor_.”

Lord Trevelyan smiled at his daughter-in-law. “And the Antivan ambassador’s beloved daughter marrying my son had nothing to do with it?”

Alondra scoffed. “Papà would not throw his fortune to fools, no matter how much I love Liam.”

“That’s true,” Liam said. “Don Eligio is the canniest merchant prince I’ve ever had the pleasure of matching wits with.”

“Just like his daughter,” Lady Trevelyan said fondly. She looked back to Ciri, fond smile disappearing. “Do we have an agreement? You will keep Owain, Evelyn, and Maxwell safe until the end of the Conclave, and return them to Ostwick alive and in one piece.”

“I will,” Ciri said. “As for payment – this is a long job that takes me from my usual work. I might do three or four jobs in this span of time. It’s not dangerous, but it is time-consuming. I'll accept a contract of eighty gold crowns, half to be paid up front."

“We don’t have that currency,” Lady Trevelyan said. “Do you have an example of a gold crown?”

Olgierd fished one out of his wallet and dropped it on the table with a clatter. Liam took a gold coin from his pocket and held them up in comparison.

“A sovereign is slightly thicker, but a crown has a wider diameter,” he said. “I’d need to weigh them to be sure, but I think the crown has more gold.”

“No need, dear, I’ll take your word for it,” Lady Trevelyan said. “Ninety sovereigns, forty-five at the start of your journey and forty-five when you return.”

"It's a deal," Ciri said and shook the noblewoman's hand.

“I’ll come as well,” Olgierd said. “I would like to see more of your strange new world, and these peace talks sound like as good a place as any to start.”

“I’d welcome having another warrior along,” Owain said.

“More weapons always improve a volatile situation,” Olgierd agreed blithely.

Maxwell snorted into his tankard.

“And on that note, why don’t we go see how the other mages are getting on this morning, Mistress Merigold?” Evelyn said, standing up from the table.

“Good idea.” Triss made to follow her out but hesitated at Ciri’s chair. “We’ll talk later?”

“Of course,” Ciri assured her. In a low voice, she said, “It’s the Lodge I don’t trust, Triss, not you.”

Triss mustered up a smile. “I know.”

A weight Ciri hadn’t been aware of fell from her shoulders as Triss left. She disliked being at odds with people she cared about, though in truth she knew she’d do it again if she felt she had to.

“We should probably round up Raúl and Rona for our spar,” Owain said. “Live steel?”

“I promise not to hurt you too badly,” Ciri joked.

“Careful, Lady Ciri,” Liam said. “His sword’s almost as tall as you are. I hope you’re stronger than you look.”

“I am, and fast too.”

“Well, I’m cheering for you,” Maxwell declared. “Put my brother on his ass, my lady. Humble the cad.”

Luke and Delphine gasped. “Uncle Maxwell!”

“Little ears, Maxwell,” Lord Trevelyan said.

“Perhaps we’d better leave before you get yourself into worse trouble,” Ciri suggested.

“Good idea,” Maxwell said. “If you need me, I’ll be in the library.”

Once armed and armored, Ciri and Olgierd went down to the front hall to meet Owain. There they were introduced to his fellow former Templars, whom they'd seen at dinner from the dais. Knight-Lieutenant Raúl de Medina, the dark-eyed man with the curly black hair and clever face, was a charming flirt who favored a sword and shield. Knight-Corporal Rona Fisher, the pale brunette with the bright blue eyes and the sensible bun, was sarcastic and quiet, and she wore a flanged mace and a dagger at her belt.

Liam had not been joking. Owain's greatsword, from pommel to sword tip, was perhaps a half-inch shorter than her full height of five feet, nine inches. He saw her looking and winked.

“Father had it commissioned for me when I was sixteen and still just six feet tall,” he said. “It was the only thing I took with me to the Order. This sword has seen me through some difficult times.”

Ciri touched the hilt of her silver sword hanging on her back beside her steel blade. “My father commissioned a blade for me as well, my silver sword. It was his gift to me, to show me that he believed I was ready to become a Witcher.”

He looked curious, so she unsheathed it and laid it across her hands. Olgierd looked over her shoulder and read aloud, “‘ _Dubhenn haern am glâdeal, morc’h am fhean aiesin_.’ The flash that cuts through darkness, the light that breaks the night.”

Ciri looked up at him, startled. “You are _full_ of hidden talents.”

His smile had old bitterness in its corners. “All the best magical tomes are in the Elder Speech, dear.”

“That’s a magnificent sword,” Owain said. He held out his hands. “May I?”

Ciri placed it carefully across his palms, and he bent over it, eyes narrowed. Ser Rona and Ser Raúl crowded around to see. “I’ve never seen runework like this. And this is steel wrapped in silver, I can tell from the weight. What style of blade is it? I’ve never encountered anything like it.”

“It was made by a human master swordsmith, but the style is gnomish,” Ciri said. “The gwyhyr is said to be the best in the world. Here.”

She unsheathed her steel sword, _Zireael_ , and held it out for him to see, angling it in the light of the sconces so that it would better reflect the engraved flowers along its length and the tower with the swallow on the shoulder of the blade.

“ _Zireael_ , my steel sword,” she said. “This one was forged by gnomes from dark iron. It’s light and perfectly balanced, and it maintains its edge twice as long as any other steel sword I’ve used.”

“Your weapons are as beautiful as the woman who wields them, Lady Ciri,” Ser Raúl said, speaking with the same musical accent as Lady Alondra. He winked flamboyantly, then winced as Ser Rona stamped on his instep.

Ciri laughed. It was nice to be flirted with. Drowners and sullen peasants didn't pay compliments to the Witcher, and her time with the Aen Elle had perhaps skewed her vision of what human beauty was. Being treated as if she were somewhere between "unpalatable" and "repugnant" had left her wondering for a time if the Aen Elle had the right of it, and she was indeed some hideous vision of mortal ugliness.

She knew better intellectually, but she couldn’t help thinking she was... _too._ Too scarred. Too tall for humans, or too short for elves. Too skinny. Her ash blonde hair had streaks of white from trauma in her youth. Her vivid green eyes were too unnerving to meet for very long.

Yes, she’d take compliments, even from a man who appeared to live and breathe flirtation as a way of life. Still –

“You’ll forget all about me once you see Olgierd’s saber.”

“Depends on which saber he shows me,” Raúl said without pause, shooting Olgierd the same flirtatious smile.

Olgierd laughed. “You’ve cheek, sir knight. Flirt all you like, the only sword you’ll get from me is the steel one.”

Ciri sheathed _Zireael_ and took her silver sword back from Owain as Olgierd brought out his saber.

“It’s ideal for mounted combat,” Olgierd said. “You see how the blade is long and slightly curved, perfect for slashing and chopping.”

In amidst the scrolling filigree on the crossguard, Ciri thought she could pick out a spray of flowers here and there.

“It looks almost Tevinter,” Owain commented. “Less broad, and certainly less ostentatious.”

“How does it stand up to a longsword?” Rona asked.

“An average sword in the hands of an excellent swordsman will beat a poor swordsman armed with a good sword,” Olgierd said. “My saber, however, is of exceptional quality. I demand no less.”

“And are you?” Rona asked, looking over his many scars with a skeptical eye. “Any good?”

Olgierd raised a coppery eyebrow at her. “Try me and find out.”

“Rona’s sitting out our spar,” Raúl said.

Rona shrugged and put her hands on her the hilts of her weapons. “This one crushes bones, and this one punctures organs. It’s not great for sparring.”

“How did you end up with that assortment of weapons?” Ciri asked.

“The training master at the Markham Circle saw that I was miserable behind a shield and gave me free rein in the armory until I found the right match,” Rona said. “When I started winning bouts with wooden weapons, the training master said I could keep the real ones.”

Raúl threw open the front door and led the way outside. “Well, my noble friends, my weapons weren’t gifted to me by a parent, nor do they come with a great history. They sat in the Starkhaven Circle armory until I was old enough to learn to fight, and then the training master put a standard-issue sword and shield in my hands and told me to arm myself.”

“Watch who you call noble, crowbait,” Rona said.

“My most sincere apologies, peasant.”

“Better.”

Owain looked at Ciri and Olgierd and shook his head, laughter in his eyes. “I’d apologize for my friends, but I doubt it would change anything. We’ve been together too long for them to find my title remotely intimidating.”

“We’re the ones who hauled you to the privy when half the Markham Circle got the shits from bad ham,” Rona said unsympathetically. “Sorry. Shine wore off years ago.”

Olgierd hid his smile behind a scarred hand, but Ciri just laughed. For mage hunters – _former_ mage hunters – they seemed like good people.

They walked in the opposite direction of the enclosed courtyard that they'd arrived in yesterday, heading toward a low, fenced-in area along the high stone wall enclosing the main courtyard. When they arrived, Owain hopped the fence and unslung his greatsword, scabbard and all, from his back, and put on a full-face helmet.

“Alright, gentleman, lady, proud peasantry, what are we calling our rules and limits for today’s spar?”

“A deathblow wins,” Rona said.

“Magic is allowed,” Raúl continued, “but so are Templar abilities.”

“As long as you’re able to stand, the fight goes on,” Olgierd said.

Ciri agreed with all of that. “We have three people sitting out while two spar. Olgierd and Ser Raúl should take different sides, so potential deathblows don’t go unseen.”

“Good idea,” Owain said. “Lady Ciri, you’re with me.” He unsheathed his greatsword and leaned its scabbard against the fence, then walked to the center of the sparring ring to take a ready stance, sword raised.

Ciri brought out _Zireael_ and faced him, holding her sword in a two-handed grip. He grinned down at her from his great height, and she grinned back, heart already beating faster.

“Ready!” called Rona. “Begin!”

Owain’s sword came crashing down at her head. She caught it on the crossguard, muscles straining. She braced for a moment, then broke away, smacking his sword to the right and spinning left.

He cut out at her torso with a fast, brutal strike. She stepped away through nothingness. As he half-stumbled and swore she reappeared behind him and aimed a quick slice at his right arm.

“Andraste’s tits!” cried Raúl.

Owain recovered quickly, stepping back a pace and thrusting at her chest with the tip of the blade. She disappeared again, only to reappear at his left side and swing at his kidneys. He twisted to avoid the blow, reversing his grip and hammering out at her with the pommel. Once more, it didn’t connect as she stepped through the ether to appear behind him.

He swore again and transferred his greatsword into one hand. Blue-white wisps of light collected around his free hand, and he thrust it in her direction.

It hit like a hammer blow to the sternum, hard and dull. The effect radiated out into the rest of her body, making her feel achy and tired, only – only no, no, it was wearing off. She was fine.

"Ouch," she said mildly and disappeared again.

“ _Fuck._ ”

They continued this dance for several long minutes, Ciri evading heavy blows from a sword as long as she was tall, Owain barely twisting out of the way when she reappeared to land her own strikes.

“I’m getting bored, children,” Rona called out. “Stop playing games and finish this.”

Owain growled and thrust the greatsword at her stomach. Ciri saw the blow coming too late to stop, and stepped into it and through the ether, pulling herself into nothingness right as the tip of the sword touched her armor.

“Maker!”

She spun around, lashing out, and landed a hard strike to Owain’s armored back, right across the spine.

“Deathblow!” Raúl called. “The beautiful Lady Ciri wins the bout.”

They both walked somewhat unsteadily to the fence, Owain taking off his helmet to reveal a red and sweaty face.

“I haven’t been that outclassed in years,” he admitted with an easy smile. “Teleportation is quite a trick. And mages don’t just shrug off a Silence in Thedas.”

“Is that what that was? It ached for a few seconds,” Ciri said.

Owain made a face. “Either your magic doesn’t react to Templar abilities, or I’m losing my edge. It could be both. I haven’t taken lyrium since the Markham Circle fell.”

Raúl and Olgierd entered the ring, so Ciri broke off the conversation to go to an empty side of the fence to watch. The Templar was armored much like Owain, in half-plate and a full-face helm. Olgierd was wearing yet another embroidered robe, but Ciri had seen the telltale shimmer of runework on the hem. His old-fashioned robes weren’t just clothing, but lightweight and sturdy armor.

Ciri leaned forward intently as they took up their positions.

“Start!” Rona called.

Olgierd lunged forward to deliver a flurry of strikes. Raúl parried and struck back, but Olgierd moved with the grace and strength that Geralt had praised that night, each blow precise and measured. It wasn’t long before Raúl had turtled up behind his shield. Then Olgierd narrowed in on his sword arm.

He staggered back a pace as Ser Raúl smashed up at Olgierd’s face with the center of his kite shield. The Templar unwrapped two fingers from around the hilt of his sword to thrust a ball of blue-white light into Olgierd’s chest. Olgierd winced and took two stunned steps back. Then he shook his head and smiled wolfishly. “As Ciri said. Ouch.”

With a burst of black and red smoke, he vanished on the spot. Ciri’s eyes went wide. Olgierd reappeared right behind Raúl and aimed a jarring chop to Raúl’s wrist. As Raúl swore, reflexively dropping his sword, he followed up with a blow to the back of his gorget – a decapitating strike.

“Deathblow!” Ciri called. “Bout to Olgierd.”

Olgierd immediately turned on Raúl. “Never, ever drop your weapon. A fight can change in the blink of an eye, the advantage can be lost, and then you’re weaponless...and you’re dead.”

Raúl nodded. “A beginner’s error, I know. Now how by the Mother of Mercy can you two teleport?”

“I’m a Source,” Ciri said. “That particular gift is in my blood.”

“I’m well-read," Olgierd said, and he smiled politely.

He joined Ciri on her side of the fence, and she asked him under her breath, “Goetia?”

He nodded. “Did Geralt not mention that part of the tale? The demonology?”

“No, he did, it’s just different to see it.”

Olgierd sighed and looked down at her with weary eyes. “Ciri, if I have but one piece of useful advice for you to take away from my life, it is this: don’t be cruel, callous, or abjectly stupid. You’ll have far fewer regrets when you reach my age.”

Ciri thought back to her months as a teenager running with Mistle and the other Rats in Geso, thieving and ambushing noble caravans under the name of Falka. “I’ve been all three.”

“And did you suffer for it?”

Ciri touched the long, deep scar running down her left cheek. “I did.”

“Then you understand, to an extent.”

“If it helps, _I_ like you,” she said.

“That makes one of us.”

The three Templars joined them, Rona looking fresh and unruffled and the two men looking winded and sweaty. “Both of you just shrugged off a Silence like it was nothing,” Rona observed. “That would lay one of our mages flat for an hour.”

“It didn’t feel like nothing,” Olgierd said. “It felt like a sledgehammer to the chest.”

“But it wore off quickly,” Ciri added. “If you pressed the advantage inside a few seconds in a real fight with a mage from the Continent, you’d likely win.”

“Good to know,” Raúl said. “If this all goes horribly wrong and we start drowning in invading sorceresses instead of sending the mages away to safety, we’ll have the upper hand. Ha-ha!”

“If the sorceresses look anything like Mistress Merigold, you’d be dead before you quit ogling the invading army,” Owain said.

“I’ve never met an ugly sorceress,” Ciri said, “and I’ve had dealings with plenty.”

“Poor Ser Raúl, he died as he lived,” Rona said flatly. “A drooling lecher who drops his sword.”

“To think I left the Templar Order for this disrespect,” Raúl bemoaned, shaking a theatrical fist at Rona. “I could be hauling my armored carcass through the Hinterlands of Ferelden chasing frightened apostates and killing innocents right now, you know.”

“Why aren’t you?” Ciri asked. “Why are you here, not out doing as your Order demands?”

Ser Raúl shrugged. "I never joined out of any sort of conviction. When you grow up on the streets in Antiva, there are only three ways out: the whorehouses, the Templars, or the assassin's guild, the Crows. I was too young for sex and too scared of the Crows. I just wanted to eat regularly. But the Crow recruiters were already sniffing around my neighborhood, so when I joined up with the Templars, they sent me out of Antiva so the Crows wouldn't get any ideas about stealing me. I met Owain in Starkhaven, and the rest is history."

“My older brother is a mage,” Rona said. “Clemence. He used to write letters home, and then one day he just stopped. I joined to track him down, but I never could. It was like he just disappeared. I was a new knight when Owain and Raúl were transferred to Markham. They helped me keep the female apprentices safe from rape. When the Circles fell, it made sense for us to leave. The Order wasn’t anything like what I’d been promised.”

“The mages here are all from Markham,” Owain said. “They followed us, trusted us to keep them safe from harm. If there’s anything to the Templar vow that’s worth keeping, it’s that.”

Ciri could appreciate all those motivations. Her instincts were right; these were good people. She’d be happy to travel with them to the Conclave.

“You mentioned something, lyrium, I think it was,” she said. “Is that the source of your powers?”

The ease and joviality drained from Raúl’s face. “Ah, that. I’m afraid we Templars don’t know much about it, for all that it’s forced down our throats. It’s a mineral, mined deep underground by the dwarves. It’s magical, toxic in its raw state, and needs to be processed before it can be used. The Chantry and the Dwarven Merchants’ Guild control the surface trade. Mages take lyrium potions to increase the strength of their magic when they cast spells. The effect lasts for a minute or two at most for a mage.

“Templars need lyrium for their magic canceling abilities. We get a draught of lyrium when we first become knights, and then we’re expected to regularly take it. Not that we protest,” he said, scoffing. “It’s cripplingly addictive to a non-mage.”

“And degenerative,” Owain said. “You see older Templars, ones who’ve been in service for twenty years or more, and they can’t remember the names of knights they see every day.”

“The addiction is probably why so many Templars stayed with the Order,” Rona said. “Not many would willingly cut themselves off from lyrium.”

Ciri’s hand crept up, unbidden, to touch her white-streaked hair.

“Are you alright?” she asked gently.

“The headaches are blinding, when they come on,” Owain said, “but Evelyn and Enchanter Honora have a potion that takes most of the edge off. The trouble is the muscle aches.”

“You’ll be fine one moment, and then your calf will cramp with the worst knots,” Raúl agreed. “Or your shoulder, or your forearm. And then the muscle will ache for days after the cramp has passed.”

“It’s survivable, which is the important part,” Rona said. “We can handle a little pain.”

“Is there anything we can do to help?” Ciri asked.

“No, probably not,” Owain said, smiling a little at her concern. “It’s our problem, not yours. But it’s good of you to ask.”

Ciri doubted that she personally could do anything to alleviate their suffering, but the Temple of Melitele in Ellander back in her world could do all but raise the dead, and there was no end to the wonders that alchemy could achieve.

Lyrium. What a lovely name for something so horrible. And for the Order to feed it to their initiates, with the new knights unknowing of the cost! To Ciri's mind, there were few things more monstrous than stripping a person of their agency. Her hands still shook when she smelled fisstech.

She resolved to look into the situation further, regardless of Owain’s polite denial. They deserved better than to suffer for making the right decision.

* * *

After another few bouts, Olgierd wandered off to find Triss, keen on picking Enchanter Honora's mind for information on the Fade and Thedas' world of demons and spirits. He made a passing remark about "prime entertainment" as Triss taught the apprentices Witcher signs, clearly anticipating either dismal failure or complete chaos.

Ciri took a lengthy soak in a hot bath brought up to her room by two elven servants. She’d been left bruised in several places after they restricted magic and Templar abilities during the spars. One of the servants had poured a small, lightly-scented vial of something woodsy and herbal with a hint of sweetness into the water before she left, and her muscles practically sighed in bliss from the combination of the heat and the elixir.

Freshly dressed in a clean blue shirt and gray trousers, she made her way down to the library in search of Maxwell. She found him ensconced in a large armchair, a plate of golden cookies balanced on one arm of the chair, a glass of white wine in his hand, and a large book in his lap.

He looked up from his book, placed a ribbon between the open pages, and closed it carefully. “Lady Ciri,” he said. “Cookie? Wine? Book?”

“I’ll not say no to a cookie,” she said. “Though to be honest I came for book advice.”

“You’ve come to the right place, then,” he said, gesturing with the wine glass to the shelves around them. “We have all manner of books.”

“I’m looking for a bestiary,” she clarified.

“It's on the shelf against the back wall, middle row, close to the far wall. Look for the green leather binding."

Ciri followed his instructions and found the book exactly where he said it would be. “‘The Wilds of Thedas’ by Stephan d’Eroin,” she read aloud.

“We also have ‘Musings on a Form: The Beast’ by Jun Emond if you’re interested,” Maxwell said, joining her at the shelf. He pointed to a hefty looking volume bound in gray. “And a number of texts on herbalism and alchemy.”

“You seem to know this library about as well as I know my horse and swords,” Ciri said.

Maxwell shrugged. “With Liam busy being heir, there wasn’t much else to do when I wasn’t attending lessons. Evelyn’s magic manifested when I was five, and the Templars came for her that week. Owain left for the Order when I was ten. They came back three and a half, nearly four years ago, while I was finishing my degree in history from Starkhaven University.”

“You’re still getting to know each other again,” Ciri surmised.

“Well, you know. We’re busy. We have our duties.” He took a sip of his wine, an affable mask falling over his face. “And mine is guarding the books and chatting with guests, apparently. Do you need anything else?”

“Yes, actually. I’ve a feeling that this Conclave will be more political than simply sitting down and discussing grievances,” Ciri said.

Maxwell looked eerily like a younger, unscarred Olgierd as he raised an eyebrow at her. “You’ve been paying attention, then.”

“You’re not just going to represent a faction,” Ciri said. “You’re going to help your family gain an edge, to make connections and undercut your rivals.”

The mask slipped, and he hid his pleased smirk in his glass. “Oh?”

“If this were simply about mages and templars, you wouldn’t be going with Evelyn and Owain. But you are. It stands to reason that you have a separate motive.”

“ _Clever_ , Lady Cirilla. Mother and Father were right to hire your services.” He swirled the wine in his glass idly, then asked, “How would you like to help me?”

“I hate politics,” Ciri warned him.

“That’s fine,” Maxwell assured her. “All you need to do is be your charming self, and not to confirm or deny anything when other nobles try to find out the truth of rumors that might spread along the journey to Haven.”

“And what sort of rumors will I be refusing to confirm or deny?”

“I’ll come up with something good,” Maxwell said. “The descendant of ancient elves, maybe, or lost heiress to the throne of some kingdom somewhere –”

Ciri swiped his wineglass and downed it.

“–Something I said?”

“It’s fine,” she said, handing back the empty glass. “Fine.”

"Alright, if you're sure," he said skeptically. "Naturally, the truth will be mixed in, but who will want to believe that you're a professional mercenary when the other options are so much more romantic? In my experience, there's nothing nobles like better than the hint of a romantic mystery. All the better if there are ancient elves mixed into the story. Recent elven ancestry is vulgar, but _distant_ elven ancestry is beautiful and tragic.” He sniffed. “Idiots.”

“It’s like that in my world, too,” Ciri said. “Elves used to rule the lands before humans arrived. Now there’s only one country with elven nobility, and it’s a vassal state to a human empire.”

“Patterns of conquest and colonization,” Maxwell said. “Conquerors usually aren’t content until the conquered are ground into squalor, pushed into the margins, or assimilated in totality.” He looked into his empty glass and frowned. “But I digress.”

“How does Olgierd fit into all this?”

“It would be easier if we could claim him as a long-lost relative,” Maxwell said. “He practically looks like one of us with the red hair. But I think we should play up the foreignness, to be honest. Let the rumors shape themselves around him and then encourage the ones we like.”

“I still haven’t agreed to this.”

“You haven’t said no, either.”

This whole idea practically gave her hives. “Ugh. Fine. But if I actually have to do any politicking myself, I’m done.”

“Fantastic. You won’t regret it much.”

“I already do,” Ciri muttered. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to go see how Triss and the mages are getting on and read my book.”

“Don’t forget your cookie!”


	4. Rumors and Arrivals

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Maxwell's rumor mill irks Ciri. Conversations are had on a number of topics, and they arrive at Haven. Ciri investigates the village and the temple. Things kick off.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> beta-read by brightspot149. Thank you!

Ciri hadn’t realized quite what Maxwell was getting her into until several days into the trip to Ferelden. They’d crossed the Waking Sea and were some leagues down the Imperial Highway before she had an inkling of what was going on.

“Emperor Florian doesn’t seem the type,” one of the Ostwick nobles said quietly as they’d set up camp for the seventh night.

“Unless he saw this civil war coming, and wanted assurance of stability in the wings,” a stately dowager countered.

“Preposterous. Bastardy is more in line with Maric than Florian. Look at the current king of Ferelden.”

“Who are the Trevelyans’ trading partners in Ferelden again?”

Ciri hurried on to join Olgierd at his fire before she was spotted. _If this is what I think it is, Maxwell has some explaining to do._

She was still unnerved the next morning but she tried to put it aside. It was not to be. Two enchanters from the Ostwick Circle drew her into a conversation on the fall of Elvhenan, and as they conversed, she became aware of a number of eavesdroppers riding nearby. Murmurs of “magical bloodline” and “elven features” reached her ears, and she clenched her jaw in irritation.

Later that day, as she sat and attempted to read her bestiary, a starry-eyed young noblewoman told her she was "very brave" and "so brave" and "truly brave," and went on in that length until Ciri, exasperated, put the book away and paid the woman her full attention, asking what on earth she meant.

“Why, to flee an unwanted marriage and live by the sword!” the woman gasped. “It’s so romantic!”

She was going to wring Maxwell’s neck.

“Have you ever heard of the Nevarran von Everecs?” Olgierd asked her as she sat at their fire that evening, her nerves fraying and itching to shout at someone. “I ask because half this lot have convinced themselves that I’m the only remaining member of an exiled noble family, and they all _distinctly_ remember the von Everecs.”

Olgierd, to her amusement, had claimed to be a minstrel when anyone gathered the courage to ask him directly, gesturing to the lute strapped to Ifrit’s saddlebags. No one had the temerity to challenge him on it, despite the fact that the most he did was pluck the strings and strum chords.

“I hope whatever Maxwell is doing is paying off,” Ciri said, “because this is driving me mad.”

“I went mad for a time,” Olgierd said. “This isn’t madness, it’s irritation.”

“Thanks _ever so much_ for the sympathy.”

He laughed. “Let him play his games, Ciri. Nothing that happens here will affect you.”

She pulled out her bestiary, flipping forward to the section on Ferelden. “You’re no help at all.”

He strummed the lute in his lap and asked, “What does that book have to say about this fascinating world?”

“They don’t classify anything as a monster, for one thing,” Ciri said. “Yet were I to judge by appearance, I’d call many of their beasts exactly that. And their names are remarkably similar in some respects. They’ve wingless wyverns, and varghests where we have barghests. This bestiary even mentions Ferelden werewolves.”

“Have you noticed how strange Thedas is?” Olgierd murmured, lowering his voice to the barest whisper. “It seems a warped mirror of the Continent with its humans and its elves. We’ve heard mention of dwarves, but not a thing of gnomes or halflings. They have monstrous creatures unlike any animal we’ve seen back home, but they do not call them monsters. They have their own Church of the Eternal Fire, apparently founded when they threw a divine lady in the pyre. It makes me wonder.”

“Me as well,” Ciri agreed in a hushed voice. “I’ve encountered humans and nobility in other worlds before, but never has it been so eerily similar.”

“What did Triss have to say about it all?”

Ciri had teleported back the night before while there was a change in the guard shift to ask just that. Triss, in a good mood from the progress her pupils were making, had given her thoughts.

“She thinks this world was brushed by the Conjunction.”

“So did Grandmother Iori,” Evelyn said, dropping down to sit beside Ciri. “Sorry,” she added as Ciri jumped. “I’ve been told I’m too quiet.”

“You’ve feet like a cat, Lady Evelyn,” Olgierd said.

“I used to sew bells on my hems so I wouldn’t startle some of the more high-strung enchanters,” Evelyn said. “There’s nothing like getting singed by a fireball to make you want to be a little louder.”

Ciri laughed softly. “Your Grandmother had the same theory?”

“She believed that the Fade provided a sort of buffering effect for Thedas, shielding it from the worst of the Conjunction,” Evelyn said.

“It’s as good a theory as any,” Olgierd said. “Mind, I only know what you and Enchanter Honora told me of the Fade. But it seems a powerful enough force to manage such a feat.”

“What did she make of the elves here?” Ciri asked.

“She pitied them,” Evelyn said, “and hated herself for it. She believed, truly, that the ancient elves of Thedas were a lost branch of the Aen Undod, and were distant kin to her. But seeing their descendants reduced to servitude and a human lifespan hurt her deeply.”

“Yet your servants are elven," Ciri said. She'd noticed the distinct class division within the Trevelyan household on the first day and had wondered at a family with elven ancestry employing elven servants.

Evelyn’s blue eyes flashed. “Do you expect that there’s much better employment in Ostwick? We pay our servants three times what any other noble pays theirs. If their children wish to learn a trade, we sponsor them. If they’re illiterate, we provide lessons. No one’s needs go unattended.”

“I imagine elven servants also help people forget your own blood,” Olgierd observed.

“There is that,” Evelyn said. “It took sixty years before the Trevelyans were welcomed back into their old social circles. These days, people don’t bring it up unless they’re trying to score political points. You know, it’s no wonder we have so many mages in the family with our ‘unfortunate’ ancestry.”

“And what do the elves of Thedas make of humans with an elven ancestor?” Ciri asked.

“As far as the elves are concerned, the Trevelyans are completely human,” Evelyn said. “Grandmother Iori and Lord Ioan’s children were elf-blooded, but by now it’s been bred out in their eyes. No, it’s the humans who obsess over it.”

Maxwell sat beside his sister, a tankard of something dark and foamy in his hand. “I knew an elf-blooded student at Starkhaven University. Maker, was he ever a prick. I know he felt like he had twice as much to prove as anyone else, but he could have been less of a shit about it. He was always talking down to the servants, threw an absolute fit if anyone asked him about his mother.”

“I have a bone to pick with you,” Ciri said, glaring.

“Later,” Maxwell dismissed. “Too many ears.”

“Is it working, at any rate?”

“It’s working quite well, thanks for asking.” He took a swallow from his tankard and nodded at Olgierd’s lute. “Are you ever going to play that thing?”

Olgierd looked to Ciri and smiled slightly in invitation. “Perhaps. If Ciri fancies singing.”

Ciri was no trained bard, but she had sung at Belleteyn. Dandelion had complimented her voice, telling her that any lord would be pleased to hear her perform in his hall. Olgierd himself had a beautifully resonant baritone.

“I suppose,” Ciri agreed. “But not one of Dandelion’s ballads. _Nor_ Priscilla’s,” she added quickly, seeing the mischief in Olgierd’s eyes.

“A Redanian song, then?” Olgierd said. “Are you familiar with ‘If I Had Wings?’”

Ciri did know it. The sweet love song had made the rounds in Temerian taverns and was popular in Novigrad as well. "I can sing that, but 'Rinde' stands out in Thedas. Lord Maxwell, give me a city in your world to substitute."

“Rinde, Rinde...does it have to rhyme?”

“Not really, no.”

“Salle, then, or the Dales.”

“Where is Salle?”

“It’s a port city in Antiva, well known for its fishing and leatherworking,” Evelyn said.

“Well, that won’t do,” Ciri said. “And the Dales?”

“Grasslands in Orlais,” Maxwell said. “There are lots of small towns and noble estates, plenty of untamed wilderness. It’s home to several nomadic Dalish clans – elves who disdain human society and preserve their old ways.”

“I can make it work,” Ciri said. “Olgierd?”

Olgierd strummed the opening chords of the song on his lute, and conversation faltered at the nearest fires as people realized that the mysterious, heavily scarred “minstrel” was finally playing his instrument with true intent.

He nodded to Ciri, and she lifted her voice and sang, sweet and clear in the quiet night.

“If I had wings like a goose,  
I would fly after Jasiek to the Dales.  
I’m flying over the woods, I’m flying over the water,  
To search where Jasiek is lead by harsh fate.

“Girl, you’re flying over the earth like a goose in vain.  
You won’t find Jasiek in the woods nor in the cottages.  
Your Jaśko works in the black depths of the earth.  
Together with miners, he mines the black coal.

“Stars, my stars, give me your rays.  
I will take them for Jasiek, I will take them for the miners.  
Give me your light, the sunshine in blue.  
Let my miner, Jaśko, have a sunny life.”

Applause met her ears as the last chord faded on the air. A tear lingered in the corner of Evelyn’s eye as she clapped enthusiastically. “Beautiful! What a tragic love story!”

“Are all Redanian songs like that?” Maxwell asked.

“Not at all. Some are quite energetic,” Olgierd said. “If you’re referring to the doomed love, however, then yes, it’s a recurring theme.” For a moment, Ciri would swear that the light went out in his eyes, leaving behind a desolate shell.

She reached out to touch his knee, but before she could make contact, he shook off the black mood and smiled, a sharp and rakish curl of his lips. “A pox on the mother country. Who wants to hear ‘The Three Maids of Vicovaro?’”

* * *

Three days later and she still hadn’t pinned Maxwell down for that chat. The latest rumors were that she’d taken up the sword to avenge a lover kidnapped by the dwarven Carta, that her mother was an elven apostate and her father a protective nobleman who kept her hidden from the Templars, and – finally – that she was the daughter of a knight and a mage who’d found common cause with the Trevelyans.

Olgierd was respectively an exiled Nevarran noble, a long-lost Trevelyan cousin, an Orlesian bard, and Ciri’s hired bodyguard. Currently, the faction that believed he was exiled Nevarran nobility was winning.

Maxwell looked quietly pleased with himself whenever she caught a glimpse of him. He always had his head together with one noble or another, or with the revered mother in her silly triangular hat.

“Let him work,” Owain advised as they rode along the Imperial Highway. She’d needed to ask him who exactly the Carta were who were supposed to have kidnapped her beloved. “He learned politics at Mother and Grandmother Iori’s knees while Evelyn studied spells and I practiced swordplay. This is his arena.”

“But it makes _no sense_ ,” Ciri said, frustrated.

“There’s always an angle to what he does,” Owain said. “He hides it behind quips and sharp asides, but he’s clever, cleverer than the rest of us. If he gave politics his full attention instead of splitting his focus between developing his palate and reading everything in the library, Orlais would probably fall in a month.”

“Would he be Delphine’s advisor, then?” Ciri asked.

“The power behind the throne, perhaps.” Owain sighed. “Just give him time. He’ll explain himself when he’s ready.”

“I don’t like being used,” she said quietly. “And this feels very much like I’m being used.”

"I'm sorry about that. I can't undo what he's done. But I promise he isn't being malicious."

“Mm.” Ciri dug her heels into Zephyr’s sides and trotted ahead, eager to leave the conversation behind.

It was late summer in Thedas, mid-August where it had been early May in her world. She'd wondered at the coincidence of August having the same name in this world and hers, but apparently, it was the only one. Still, it seemed odd.

Despite the clear sky, the weather was crisp and chilly, and songbirds flew overhead, wittering and chirping their bright melodies. They were near the foot of the mountains, and the winds were picking up, ruffling her hair and reaching down the back of her neck with icy fingers.

She wondered what Geralt would make of the creatures in her loaned bestiary, if he would look at the hulking gurn, the pale, venomous lurker, or the reclusive, goblinoid ghast, and reach for his silver sword instead of his steel. Clearly, they could be killed with conventional weapons. But were they from the world of monsters that crossed her own in the Conjunction? That deserved to be investigated.

Raúl rode up beside her on a dappled palomino gelding she’d been told was a Free Marches Ranger, very popular in the city-states they’d left behind.

“Deep thoughts?” he asked. “It’s too glorious a day for you to wear such a serious expression on your lovely face, Lady Ciri.”

“I’m contemplating the nature of monsters,” she said. “Is it a monster if it doesn’t take a silver sword to kill it?”

“Philosophy?” Raúl asked. “Where’s Maxwell? Do I need to be more or less sober for this conversation?”

“Not philosophy, taxonomy,” she said, smiling a little despite the mention of her current source of irritation. “Monsters on the Continent don’t normally fall to a steel blade. It takes silver or magic – or overwhelming force. So are the creatures here, the lurkers and gurguts and the like, monsters or not?”

“Perhaps you should try your hand at killing one with your steel sword, and then another with your silver sword,” Raúl suggested. “See if there’s a difference.”

“And what if I find that silver does kill them better?” Ciri asked.

“Then you’ll have learned something new,” Raúl said. “More knowledge is always helpful. But the world will probably continue on as it always has. Still, tell me if it does. I’ll want to arm myself with a silver dagger if that’s the case.”

Ciri thought he was probably right. Even if she did discover that the beasts of Thedas were monsters, it wouldn’t mean that they hadn’t always been monsters, or that Thedosians hadn’t been successfully defending themselves against their fangs and claws for over a thousand years.

“How are you getting along with the Templars from the Ostwick Circle?” she asked.

“Oh, marvelously!" Raúl said. "First they very kindly offered us all lyrium, then they courteously took us to task for abandoning the Order in its time of need. And for the past week and a half, they've been very amiably ignoring us unless it's to compassionately offer us some lyrium again, as they’re certain we’re in desperate need.”

“But you didn’t abandon your duty,” Ciri said. “You stayed with the mages who needed protection.”

“Yes, but I didn’t do it while wearing a stylish skirt and a fancy bucket, and I don’t have a flaming sword stamped on my breastplate anymore,” Raúl said. “Without the trappings, I’m simply Raúl de Medina, unemployed rascal and devilishly handsome warrior.”

“You’ll do, I suppose,” Ciri sniffed, and Raúl grasped his chest and swayed in his saddle.

“Mercy! Have mercy, _bellisima_!”

“Well, they sound insufferable,” Ciri said. “Who knows how Lady Evelyn put up with them for so long.”

“My understanding of the Ostwick Circle is that it’s a very quiet place,” Raúl said. “Not so fun for people like you and me, but great for scholars and healers like Lady Evelyn. So long as the mages weren’t conducting blood rituals and summoning demons in the dining hall, the templars left them alone, and the mages returned the favor.”

“It sounds lonely, isolating.”

“As I said, it’s not for everyone.”

Ciri could see a dark smudge at the base of the mountain they were approaching, and when she squinted it resolved into several dark buildings. “Look ahead. I think that’s the last sign of civilization until we reach Haven.”

“Does Haven count as civilization?” Raúl countered. “I hear it’s a tiny village in the middle of nowhere. These nobles will be expecting beds and a roof over their heads, and finding themselves pitching their tents in the field again.”

“They haven’t complained too much yet.”

“Just you wait.”

* * *

The little village of Chertswold had but one inn, and their traveling party quickly filled it to the rafters. Ciri, Olgierd, Owain and Raúl claimed one end of a table, bowls of steaming hot mutton and pea stew set before them for supper, and they watched as Rona stared blankly ahead while a middle-aged Templar lectured her sternly by the bar.

Apparently having had her fill, she yawned, jaw stretching and cracking, every tooth in her mouth showing. The Templar sputtered, and as a natural lull fell in the inn’s conversation, Rona said clearly, “I’m sorry, I dozed off after ‘Ser Rona, I need a word.’”

“Ser Rona, you will –”

“Eat my supper before it gets cold,” she said, and stepped around him, stomping across the room to sit heavily at Owain’s side. “Pompous, self-important, officious prick,” she muttered. “If the Chantry was a knob, he’d lick it.”

“To be fair to Knight-Captain Cidro, he was expecting active Templars and got us instead,” Owain said.

“To be fair to Knight-Captain Cidro, he can eat my entire ass,” Rona retorted. “Hey, Ciri.”

“Hm?”

“Have you heard the latest one?”

Ciri groaned, dropping her head into her hands. “No. Another?”

Rona ate a spoonful of stew, chewing the bite of mutton thoughtfully, and after she swallowed it down she pointed at Ciri and Olgierd with the spoon. “Someone was observant enough to realize you came out of nowhere. The new rumor is that you were summoned from the Fade in the Trevelyan family’s time of need.”

“Who started that one?” Owain said, brow furrowed. “It’s dangerous, and too close to the truth.”

“I’ve no idea,” Maxwell said from behind Ciri. She glared up at him, and he held out his free hand defensively, clutching a full tankard in the other. “These things take on a life of their own, you know.”

“Well, put an end to this one!” Owain hissed.

Maxwell looked at his brother like he’d been asked to dance naked through Novigrad’s city streets. “I can’t do that,” he said. “Don’t you have any idea how rumors work? If I bury this one, I lend it credence. I have to fan the flames of the other rumors, let this one die a natural death.”

Entirely fed up with the whole business, Ciri set her spoon down and made to stand. “Lord Maxwell. Explain. Outside. Now.”

“No,” he said firmly. “Things haven’t finished playing out.”

“I’m really, truly annoyed with you, Lord Maxwell.”

“And I really, truly deserve it,” he said. “I’m grateful, Lady Ciri. You and Lord Olgierd have been even more helpful than I imagined.”

“When we get to Haven, then,” Ciri said.

“After the Conclave,” Maxwell bargained.

“Right after.”

“You have my word.”

He went back to his table with the noble men and women from Ostwick’s wealthiest and most influential families, and Ciri turned her attention back to her mutton and pea stew. Food was clearly not a great strength of Ferelden culture, but it was filling and hearty, with onions and potatoes to thicken it. With different spices, it could almost be a Temerian dish.

There were too many of them to stay at the inn; the Ostwick nobility got first pick of the rooms, and the rest of them camped out in the village outskirts with their horses. Ciri was well used to sharing a tent with Olgierd after a week and a half on the road. She had grown accustomed to hearing someone taking deep, even breaths not two feet away at night, to watching him carefully trim his beard and shave the sides of his head with a little shaving kit every morning, and to taking turns changing in the tent while the other waited outside.

This night there wasn’t a cloud in the sky. Olgierd sat outside the tent and leaned back, resting on his elbows, legs outstretched in front of him, and gazed up at the stars.

“They’ve different stars here,” he said.

Ciri joined him on the ground. “I’d expect so.”

“I knew it, but it’s another thing to gaze upon them. Look at them, Ciri!”

She looked, and the sky unfolded before her eyes like a deep black field scattered with glittering diamonds. Then the diamonds seemed to grow brighter, and more diamonds came to the fore until the entire black field was encrusted with them, and not a single inch of sky was free of stars.

“I see them, Olgierd.”

They stared up for a long, quiet minute, then Olgierd said, “I’ve often wondered these past years if your father made a mistake saving me. He rode to my rescue, but he left me with naught but the ashes of a broken life to mourn. My life is a ruin at my own hand.”

She stayed silent.

“Perhaps I was saved for this...a starry night in a foreign world. Your father gave me a chance to be the man Iris believed I was before it all went so wrong. I’ve my doubts, but I must try. For her sake.”

“It’s not too late to be that person,” Ciri told him. “I believe in you.”

“I’d like to think so.”

She got to her feet and looked down at her traveling companion, still staring skyward. “I’m headed to bed.”

“Goodnight, Ciri.”

As she changed out of her armor and into fresh clothing more suitable for sleeping, she heard the sound of a lute being gently strummed outside the tent. She wrapped herself in her blanket and fell asleep to the sonorous sound of Olgierd von Everec singing sad Redanian songs.

* * *

They arrived in Haven two days later with little fanfare, tired and saddle-sore. The mountain path had been steep and narrow, forcing them to travel in single file up the winding rock and root strewn dirt trail. It grew ever colder the higher they rode, until Ciri could see her breath on the air at noon on a bright day.

Raúl’s prediction about Haven being a tiny village in the middle of nowhere had been correct. It was a motley collection of cabins surrounding a large central church – _Chantry_ , she reminded herself – all of which was ringed by a high stone wall and a large wooden door twice the height of a man. Outside the wall were several beige tents and the odd wooden building.

Zephyr’s hooves crunched on the thin layer of snow covering the ground, and at her side Olgierd shook small flakes of snow from his hair, shivering.

“Let’s stable the horses and find the tavern before we freeze through,” he said.

“This way,” Owain said, pointing to a ramshackle enclosure by the smithy, just outside the stone walls to the right of the village doors. There was one horse within, a bay.

“That can’t be it,” Ciri protested. “Where are they going to put the rest of the horses?”

Owain shrugged. “I think the mages and noble delegates are moving on to the Temple of Sacred Ashes immediately. It’s a problem for tomorrow.”

Now Ciri had another problem. “Not Evelyn and Maxwell.”

“I think so, yes.”

“Oh no, they aren't."

She wheeled Zephyr around and rode back down the line. “Evelyn! Lady Evelyn!”

Evelyn reined in her little gray mare as she prepared to depart with the Circle mages. “Lady Ciri?”

“You’re staying here,” Ciri said. “I haven’t cleared the Temple or Haven of threats yet.”

“Evelyn, this is ridiculous,” a mage interrupted. “We’re here at the Divine’s personal invitation.”

“You will let me do my job,” Ciri insisted.

“I’m sorry, Enchanter Lornas,” Evelyn said. “Lady Ciri is right. I promised my mother I’d come back to her safely, and Ciri has given her word to see me home alive. I’ll meet you all there soon.”

Enchanter Lornas huffed. “Very well. But be quick about it.”

“Owain and Olgierd are by the stable,” Ciri told her. “I’ll meet you there. I need to fetch your other brother.”

“Good luck!”

The noble delegation was farther ahead – had already crossed the bridge on the path to the temple, in fact – and she spurred Zephyr into a smooth canter down the trail.

“Lord Maxwell!”

Maxwell looked up from his conversation with a gray-haired noble, accepting a folded sheet of parchment and slipping it into his belt pouch. “Lady Ciri,” he said. “Come to join us?”

“Come to bring you back to Haven,” she said. “I have a job to do, and you’re preventing me from doing it.”

He sighed. “I still need to speak with Lady Penrose, and she won’t be available until the first round of peace talks are over –”

“Back to Haven,” she said again. “You’re on every single one of my nerves, Lord Maxwell, and I have my professional pride to think of. If you don’t go willingly, I’ll throw you over the back of my horse and take you.”

“Fine, fine. But if the Trevelyans miss out on a trade deal with the Rampersad family of Dairsmuid, I’ll know who to blame,” Maxwell said.

“Fine.”

“And you’re buying drinks.”

“Don’t push it.”

He grinned, looking disarmingly boyish in the moment, and Ciri rolled her eyes.

“Please excuse me, Lord Truscott,” Maxwell said, bowing slightly to the gray-haired nobleman from his perch on his horse, “but the lady insists.”

Lord Truscott looked on with amusement. "Never refuse a lady, Lord Maxwell, especially one threatening to throw you over the back of her horse. She seems fully willing to do it." He bowed back, and then bowed to Ciri, hand over his heart. "My lady."

“Lord Truscott.” She returned the bow without the hand gesture, curious what rumor _he_ believed.

Maxwell relieved her curiosity as they rode back to Haven. “Lord Enyon Truscott is an avid collector of old elven antiquities, and a long-time donor to Starkhaven University,” he explained. “I’ve been trying since my student days to get his support in expanding the Elven Studies department. Apparently, he favored the rumor that you’re descended from the ancient elves, and wrote a letter to my father and to the head of the History department demanding that his donation be earmarked for classes on early elven history in the next academic year.”

“He favored it?”

“He didn’t believe a word of it,” Maxwell said, “but he liked it well enough. It appealed to his romantic side. No, he _believed_ the rumor about you being a royal bastard of King Maric.” He patted his belt pouch. “I have his letter to Father here, along with more letters and promissory notes from other nobles. I’ll tell you all about my successes later.”

“In detail,” Ciri said. “I want to know what I suffered for.”

“‘Suffered’ is a bit harsh, don’t you think?”

“Every nerve, Lord Maxwell.”

“Fair enough.”

They found Olgierd, Owain, and Evelyn waiting patiently by the stable. Their mounts were already unsaddled and put away, and they were all shivering in the light, freezing wind, arms wrapped around full saddlebags and eddies of snow gathering at their feet.

The enclosure was just barely big enough for Zephyr and Maxwell’s Free Marches Ranger to fit comfortably within. Her mare gave her a plaintive look, snorted, and backed out.

“No, Zeph.”

Zephyr tossed her head and planted her hooves by the outside of the enclosure. Ciri sighed and tied her lead to the fence, rubbing her mare’s neck. “There you go. Have it your way, silly goose.”

She and Maxwell made quick work of unsaddling their horses, taking off the saddlebags and brushing them down from the long ride up the mountain. With saddles put away in the chests by the enclosure and bags gathered, they set off to find someone who could direct them to an unoccupied hut, or a patch of dirt to camp on.

The “someone” turned out to be a harried young woman barely out of adolescence dressed in a lay sister’s habit. She took one look at their clothes and weapons – at Maxwell’s doublet and Olgierd’s silver and pink sapphire livery collar, and Ciri’s master-crafted steel and dark red leather armor with her two swords and her jeweled dagger – and promptly directed them to a cabin above the tavern.

“It’s by the apothecary,” she told them. “Just skirt the edge of Haven, stick right and keep going up.”

The cabin was dark inside, with cobwebs hanging from the corners of the ceiling. Evelyn sat on one of the beds and dust flew up from the mattress.

“Well, it’s better than nothing,” she said.

Trite, but true. They left their bags by the beds and went down to the crowded tavern, where Maxwell promptly left them to go make friends with the smiling barmaid.

Ciri gazed about the tavern. It seemed like a fairly even mix of Chantry people, Templars, mages, and laborers. Few were elves; the only ones she saw were with the mages or servants. They all seemed content to stay in their separate groups and eye each other warily.

Something in the far corner of the tavern caught her eye, and she grabbed Owain’s arm. “What – who – is that?”

Even seated the being was tall, with curling horns and braided black hair, and a distinctly gray cast to her brown skin. She wore hunting leathers and had a long recurve bow leaning against the table beside her. She sat alone, flipping through papers and taking notes, writing things down and crossing things out. The others in the tavern were giving her a wide berth.

“She’s a Qunari,” Owain said quietly. “Or a Tal-Vashoth. Or a Vashoth.”

“That’s...very confusing.”

“Giant horned people from Par Vollen. The Qunari follow the Qun, their laws and governing philosophy. You rarely see them outside of their lands. Tal-Vashoth are Qunari who have left the Qun. Vashoth are Qunari who have never known the Qun.”

“I’m still confused, but alright.”

“Don’t ask me to explain the Qun,” Owain said. “That’s all I know, right there.” He inclined his head at the Qunari, or Tal-Vashoth, or Vashoth. “Want to meet her?”

To Ciri’s mind, she looked like a strange, fully dressed succubus. But then, she couldn’t see if she had hooves or not. “Why not?”

Owain forged through the bustling tavern with Evelyn and Olgierd in his wake. Ciri followed, keeping an eye on their backs, and arrived in time to see the woman shake hands with Owain and to hear her say, "Vashoth, actually. Herah Adaar, logistical officer of the Valo-Kas Mercenary Company."

“Owain Trevelyan,” Owain said. “This is my sister, Evelyn, and these are Lord Olgierd von Everec and Ciri – Lady Cirilla.”

Hands were shaken all around, and Ciri excused herself to go explore Haven, having already committed to ensuring the safety of the Trevelyan siblings in both the village and the temple.

Even taking into account her thorough poking and prying, exploring Haven from top to bottom took her less than ninety minutes. She noted the tension between the mages and the Templars, the way even the human servants looked down on their elven counterparts, the _twitchiness_ of the clerics in the Chantry whenever a mage or Templar raised their voice….

_Lady Trevelyan was right. This place is a powder keg._

She’d spotted someone with face paint, or tattoos, lurking in the woods beyond Haven. To her annoyance, he’d disappeared as soon as he noticed her looking. She hadn’t thought that the Dalish elves came around human settlements. They were like the Scoia’tael from her world in that respect. It was odd enough that she made a mental note to bring it to Owain’s attention when she got back from the Temple of Sacred Ashes.

There was also the dwarf woman, auburn-haired, green-eyed and tanned, who loitered by the bridge for no discernable purpose. Whenever too much attention fell on her, she whipped out a chapbook with a bright red cover that made onlookers blush and hurry on, and once they passed she'd smirk and tuck it away. After hearing about the Carta, Ciri had her suspicions that the woman was waiting for a delivery of lyrium or confirmation of a sale.

 _Perhaps I should confront her about my kidnapped beloved_ , she mused.

The dwarf woman noticed her scrutiny and brought the red chapbook out again.

“Belina stroked the gray giant’s erect member with a trembling hand,” she read aloud. “‘Blessed Maker!’ the curvaceous redhead moaned. ‘No,’ the Sten corrected her. ‘It is of the Qun. Come, Viddathari. Asit tal-eb. I shall teach you our ways.’”

Ciri laughed and moved on, heading down the bridge to the temple. Once out of sight of any potential onlookers, she reached for her power and stepped through the emptiness, walking out into the treeline just below the Temple of Sacred Ashes.

The path to the door was lined with banners, both the dark crimson and flaming sword of the Templar Order and a deep blue banner with an upside-down nearly closed C that she assumed represented the Circles of Magi. Interspersed among them were bright red banners with a wavy-looking sun that Ciri had learned was one of the many symbols of the Andrastian Chantry.

She slipped through the front door and immediately walked into a screaming row between two mages, a woman in an excessively tall hat, and a Templar in _very_ shiny armor. She stopped for a moment but moved on upon seeing a few more mages and Templars move to break up the brewing fight.

There were several tall, horned, gray-skinned men and women watching from against the walls in various rooms, hands on their weapons and eyes sharp. She found a dwarf, burly and bristling with daggers, shaking hands with a Templar and accepting a bulging sack of coin in exchange for a sealed box, and she shook her head before moving on to the next room.

Another tattooed elf, hooded cloak pulled low over her face, lurked in a dark corner of a conference room observing everything with luminous brown eyes. She leaned on her mage’s staff and watched as centuries of grievances were laid out and fingers were pointed.

Ciri slipped from that room, moving down the hall on quiet feet. A few more steps and she couldn’t hear the argument behind her. It seemed that sound was muffled the farther she walked in this direction.

She cleared her throat and heard nothing.

Magic at play, then. She walked on, muscles tense. Was this betrayal, or an outside party? Who had dared?

Down the silent stairs she crept, breath calm, heart steady.

Sound abruptly came back in front of a set of double doors.

“–meone, help me!” a woman cried.

Ciri burst through the doors.

***

_"If I Had Wings Like a Goose" is a Polish folk song._


	5. Explosions and Inquisitions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Olgierd meets some important people as he races to the site of the explosion. A key figure survives, and canon shifts slightly to the left. Leliana is suspicious.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> beta-read by brightspot149 -- thank you!

A thunderous crack split the air, silencing the din of the tavern. Olgierd shot to his feet and raced to the open door, Owain and the horned woman, Herah, on his heels.

“Maker!” Owain cried. “Look!”

The sky in the distance churned with a poisonous green color, pulsing and spitting out fingers of light. It was like it had been pierced, or torn – like something magical had wrenched a hole between this world and the Fade.

“That’s where the Temple of Sacred Ashes is,” Herah said, sounding shaken.

 _Ciri_.

Olgierd bolted for the stables.

“Wait!”

“ _Fuck_ waiting!” he snarled. “I’m getting Ciri!”

Herah ran at his side, her face tight with worry. “My brother Kaaras and the rest of the company are up there. I’m going with you.”

Owain swore and caught up with him. “You aren’t going alone.”

“Just don’t get in my way.”

Chaos was everywhere. Men and women in their Chantry habits, shouting prayers to their Maker. Servants and tradesmen scrambling for shelter. A Templar and mage came to literal blows before being stopped by their compatriots and begged to help find survivors. He blindly raced past all of it, making for the horses with his heart in his throat.

Olgierd didn’t bother saddling Ifrit, merely jumping on his bare back and riding him straight out of the enclosure. Owain swore again, louder, and followed suit. He didn’t see what Herah did, but he heard hoofbeats, so he assumed her mount was already saddled or she was bareback as well.

They thundered along the wall and down the bridge, scattering frantic clerics and tense Templars as they rode on.

_Ciri. Damn it all. The Witcher was going to kill him, and it was going to stick this time._

Ahead of them, a cluster of riders slowed and flagged them down. Olgierd reluctantly slowed Ifrit to a walk as one of the riders hailed them.

“Identify yourselves!” the woman called out.

“Does this strike you as a good time and place for a chat?” Olgierd snapped.

“Let it go, Seeker Cassandra,” a Templar in a furred tabard said. He seemed relatively tall and sturdy, even accounting for being armored and on horseback, and had curly blond hair and a pale, slightly waxy complexion. A scar split his upper lip.

The Seeker glared. She had a severe beauty – dark olive skin, hard, angular features, and a black braid wrapped around her head like a crown. “Someone caused the explosion, and you are the first to arrive on the scene.”

“That’s a bunch of horseshit, your ladyship,” Herah snorted. “My brother’s up there. So’s the rest of my mercenary company. I’m going for them, not to cover my tracks.”

“Every minute we waste is a minute more people might die,” Owain said. “Believe us or not. We’re going.”

The Seeker shook her head and looked to the other two members of her party. “Varric, you’re coming with us. Leliana, go to Haven. Try to establish order.”

Varric was a tan, broad-shouldered dwarf with sandy-blond hair, a nose that had been broken at least twice before in his life, and a remarkably fine crossbow. The woman, Leliana, was pale and freckled, wearing a chainmail brigandine and a gray-brown cowl over coppery hair.

“I will gather the remaining clerics and chantry mothers and send them among the people,” Leliana said. “My contacts will likely not have any information that we don’t already know.”

“Good. Go now,” Seeker Cassandra ordered. “Come. You wish to help? Then ride with us.”

Leliana spurred her horse toward Haven, and the remaining six rode on, galloping once more.

They rounded the bend and crossed the second bridge, wind slapping Olgierd’s face and chest with tiny flakes of snow. He cursed himself as a hundred kinds of a fool for thinking this new world could possibly be a second start for him.

_Everything I touch withers and turns to ashes in my hands. Now a Temple of Ashes has fallen and taken Ciri with it._

One of the green fingers of light touched down on the path before the horses with a sizzling, humming sound, leaving behind an ominously bubbling puddle of muck the color of the churning sky above.

“I’m gonna go out on a limb and say that’s a bad thing,” Varric the dwarf said, fingering his crossbow.

With a sucking, tearing squelch, a _thing_ dragged itself from the muck. Gray, veiny skin, tiny, hooded head on a massive, stooped back, ragged clothes, long arms ending in wicked claws –

“Called it,” Varric said, and let loose a bolt that hit it dead in the face.

It screamed its outrage and rushed them, claws outstretched. Olgierd shouted back, spurring Ifrit into a charge, and swung at it with his saber. It sliced into the creature's body with a meaty thunk, the thing shrieking and flailing. He disengaged and chopped down hard.

The thing dissolved into more green muck. Olgierd looked at his saber in disgust and wiped off the slime on his robe.

“People do not generally charge demons on horseback,” Seeker Cassandra said, looking at Olgierd with wary respect.

“Needs must,” he said shortly. “Shall we move on?”

Twice more they had to slow down for the demons. Not once did they stop. Herah and Varric peppered them with arrows and crossbow bolts, and after seeing Olgierd’s charge, Seeker Cassandra began to do so as well. Owain and the Templar unleashed their anti-magic abilities from behind with varying degrees of success.

Finally, _finally_ , they reached the final set of stairs, guarded by a solitary Templar-red tent and some sleeping rolls. Cassandra gasped as they passed through to the other side of the archway.

“Maker!”

“It’s...gone,” the blond Templar said.

A hundred feet ahead and the ground just disappeared, replaced by a smoking hole. The stench of burning meat and charcoal hung in the air.

He leaped from his horse. “Ciri! Ciri!”

“Most Holy!” Seeker Cassandra cried, adding her voice. “Most Holy! _Justinia_!”

“Kaaras!”

They approached the lip of the hole, shouting.

“Down here!” someone shouted back.

Olgierd looked over the edge and saw a mixed crew of Templars and horned giants holding two human-shaped bundles wrapped in the Templar’s skirts. _Shrouds, or to keep them warm?_

“Shokrakar!” Herah cried out in relief.

Shokrakar, a horned woman the size of Owain, shook her head. “Half of us were inside when it blew, Adaar. Kaaras was with the clients. I’m sorry.”

“Fuck,” Herah whispered. She turned from the edge and kicked the ground, sending rocks flying. “ _Fuck!_ ”

“You’ll want to see this, Seeker Cassandra,” one of the Templars called out. “We found two survivors. It’s a miracle. This woman was protecting the Most Holy.”

The edge of one of the Templar skirts turned blankets slipped, revealing white-streaked ash blonde hair and a scarred cheek.

“ _Ciri_.” Olgierd stepped forward and held out his arms. “Give her to me,” he said sharply.

“This woman saved the Divine!” the Templar holding her protested. “Who is she to you?”

“A friend,” Olgierd said. “I’ve precious few of those, so I would see this one returned to me. At once.”

"There's a problem with that," the first Templar said, and he stood his ground when Olgierd fixed him with a hard glare. “Show them, Ser Ranuld.”

Ser Ranuld flipped the blanket back to pull out Ciri’s green, pulsing hand.

“Well, shit,” Varric said.

* * *

The brunt of protection from demons fell to Varric, Owain, and the Templar on the way back. Herah stayed behind with the tattered remains of her company, putting off mourning the loss of her brother and compatriots until the crisis was behind them. Olgierd rode with the insensate Ciri sidesaddle across his lap, holding her with one arm and the reins with the other. At his side, Seeker Cassandra did the same with the Divine.

Olgierd suspected that the Divine had not been so old and frail this morning. Seeker Cassandra seemed stunned by her appearance. She cradled the Divine in her arms like a mother would a child, and listened to the paper-thin voice that occasionally issued forth from her lips.

“She said your Ciri saved her,” Seeker Cassandra said as they approached the gates. “She said she doesn’t remember what from.”

“That does sound like Ciri,” Olgierd agreed.

He carefully dismounted and led Ifrit into the stable, then walked with Ciri in his arms back to the gates of Haven. Seeker Cassandra kept pace with him, and Varric, Owain, and the blond Templar followed in their wake.

“Will you tell me your name now?”

“Olgierd von Everec,” he said. “No, I’m not Nevarran.”

"Of course you aren't," she scoffed. "I am." He looked at her, and she said, "I am Cassandra Pentaghast, Seeker of the Chantry. You may call me Cassandra if you like."

There was a commotion at the gates as they approached.

“Are you daft? Apostates aren’t welcome. Do you want to cool your heels in the dungeons with the other two we found skulking around, is that it?”

“Please, I can help. I understand the Fade, and I have studied healing –”

“I said _no_ , apostate, now –”

“Let the man speak,” Olgierd interrupted, cutting off the Templar. “You believe you can help?” he asked the mage, looking him up and down with an appraising eye.

The mage was elven, and unusually tall for an elf of this world, almost as tall as Olgierd himself. He dressed humbly in a simple homespun tunic and dark green leggings and had a rustic looking staff slung over his back. He was pale and completely bald, with slightly smaller ears than the elves he'd seen around the Trevelyan estate and Haven, and wore a canine jawbone of all things as a necklace.

The mage looked him over as well, and Olgierd had the distinctly uncomfortable feeling that more was being seen than he wished to reveal.

The mage inclined his head in the barest imitation of a bow. “Yes. I have dedicated my life to studying the mysteries of the Fade. Whatever happened here was not natural. When I saw the explosion, I knew I had to help.”

“Can you help with this?”

He shifted Ciri in his arms to reveal her palm, shining bright green and still pulsing ominously.

The mage’s eyes widened, and several expressions passed across his face, too fast to follow, before it settled on determination. “I believe so.”

“And Most Holy?” Cassandra asked, holding out the Divine for him to examine. “This is wrong. She’s only fifty-eight.”

The mage frowned deeply and held a hand over the Divine’s forehead. A warm white light flowed from his fingers and into her forehead, and after several seconds he shook his head, looking grave.

“The magic that did this cannot be undone,” he said. “Her very essence, her lifespan, was drained from her with great force. I’m sorry. I don’t believe she’ll survive more than another day or two, three at the most. I would make her comfortable and find the people who most need to hear her last words.”

Cassandra’s face crumpled, and she hugged the Divine’s fragile form to her chest with gentle arms. “Help her, then,” she ordered the mage. “If the magic on her hand is tied to the hole in the sky, then perhaps you can make a difference. Come. You too, Olgierd von Everec.”

“Who are you?” Olgierd asked as he and the mage followed Cassandra up the stairs to the gates.

“My name is Solas.”

“Olgierd. I’d say it’s a pleasure, but I’d be lying.”

“I understand.”

As soon as they walked through the gates and into Haven they were immediately accosted by frantic clerics, suspicious Templars, and anxious mages.

“Clear a path!” the Templar with them shouted. “Make way for the Seeker and the Divine!”

Demands of explanation became cries of horror when people spotted the woman in Cassandra’s arms.

“The Divine! The Divine is dead!”

“The Maker is punishing us!”

“She’s not dead!”

“She’s as good as! Look!”

There was a tug at Olgierd’s arm, and he turned his head to see Evelyn and Maxwell staring at Ciri, faces pale.

“We were almost in that explosion,” Maxwell murmured. “I almost insisted….”

Evelyn bit her lip. “Mistress Merigold mentioned Sources causing untold devastation –”

Olgierd cut her off before she could finish her thought, and before anyone might overhear. “This wasn’t Ciri’s doing.”

Evelyn nodded, but doubt lingered in her eyes.

Owain clapped him on the shoulder. “I’ll go tell Raúl and Rona that Ciri lives and see what I can do to help.”

Olgierd didn’t spare a farewell to the Trevelyans. He hurried on to catch up with Cassandra and Solas, the Templar in the furred tabard forging a path ahead for them through the panicking spectators.

The interior of the Chantry was quiet and dim, and Cassandra led Olgierd and Solas to a room near the back. She laid the Divine carefully on one of the two beds and indicated for Olgierd to put Ciri on the other.

“We will need to get your friend out of her armor,” Solas said. “Does she have clothing to change into?”

“She does; it’s in a saddlebag by the bed nearest the door in the left-hand cabin by the apothecary.”

Cassandra flagged down a lay sister and told her exactly what Olgierd had described, sending her off to fetch Ciri’s belongings. As the lay sister left, Solas began to strip Ciri of her weapons and armor, handing them off to Olgierd one piece at a time. Olgierd placed them all carefully on the low wooden bench against the wall. He kept the silver sword at hand, seeing the same green muck around the hilt that had gathered on his blade when he killed the demons on the way to the temple.

Olgierd returned to Solas’ side to look down at Ciri. At her throat, her two necklaces tangled with her hair. He saw that her agate pendant, so bright only this morning, was dim and almost tarnished-looking, faded beside the gleaming silver of her wolf’s-head amulet.

When she was undressed down to her shirt and trousers, Solas turned to Olgierd and the Templar and fixed them with a stern look. “My patient deserves her privacy. I must ask you to wait outside while I examine her. You may come back in after she is dressed again.”

“Ciri,” Olgierd said. “Not ‘the patient.’”

The corners of Solas’ mouth tightened, then relaxed slightly. “Of course. My apologies. She is important to you. To all of us, I imagine.”

“I will be with her," Cassandra said, presumably aiming to be reassuring. She fell slightly short and landed on stern instead. "I will see no harm come to your friend."

Olgierd didn’t fear that the mage might hurt her, but he could see how an agent of the Chantry might think that would be a concern. No. He was simply unwilling to let her out of his sight again. She went off on her own and nearly died. If he looked away now, what might happen?

The Templar set a gauntleted hand on his back and eased him toward the door. “They’ll let us know when we can come back,” he said. “We’ll wait right outside.”

The door closed behind them firmly, and Olgierd slumped against the wall.

“Maker’s breath,” the Templar muttered, sinking beside him. “This is a nightmare.”

“Just don’t ask how it could get any worse,” Olgierd advised, pulling an unwilling laugh from the Templar. “It can always get worse.”

“That’s been my experience. Cullen,” he said, holding out his hand to shake. “Rutherford. Formerly of the Kirkwall Circle of Magi.”

Kirkwall? Maxwell had mentioned Kirkwall’s Knight-Commander. Cullen Rutherford bore watching.

“Olgierd von Everec.”

Olgierd unsheathed Ciri’s silver sword and attempted to wipe off the green slime drying along the blade. It was curious. They’d found her in the epicenter of the explosion, so how had she managed to do battle with demons?

“Here,” Rutherford said, offering Olgierd a canteen of water from his belt.

“My thanks.”

Between the water and the hem of his robe, he managed to clean Ciri’s sword off reasonably well. He’d need to wash out her scabbard before he put the sword back in, however, or it would all be in vain.

Rutherford leaned over. “Is that silver?”

“It was a gift from her father,” Olgierd said, completely truthfully.

“The runes are unusual.”

“Quite.”

The lay sister hurried back, bags piled in her arms. A bearded man in mage robes with a satchel slung over his shoulder followed her. They looked to Olgierd and Rutherford, and Olgierd jerked his head at the door.

“They’re examining Ciri now. You’re a healer?”

“An alchemist,” the bearded man said. “Name’s Adan. I’ve brought all the potions in the apothecary with me. Something will help.”

“Go on in,” Rutherford said. “The apostate and Seeker Cassandra are likely expecting you.”

Olgierd snorted quietly. ‘ _The apostate.’_ As if living outside a glorified prison made a man more dangerous than accepting the oversight of this world’s Church of the Eternal Fire. If Cullen the Kirkwall Templar knew the sort of magic Olgierd practiced, that curly blond hair of his would straighten in shock.

The alchemist and lay sister disappeared into the room, and the door closed again. Olgierd closed his eyes and resigned himself to a long wait.

* * *

Someone had scrounged up a painted folding screen from the depths of the Chantry’s storage and divided the room in half in the time it took for Owain to pry Olgierd away from the door and grab a bite to eat at the tavern. When he returned, an older man in a Chantry habit and bushy black eyebrows was standing over Ciri’s bed and frowning. Solas ignored him, bent over Ciri’s hand in concentration.

“Do you need something, or are you just here to gawk?” Olgierd asked, brushing by him to take a seat by Ciri’s head.

“How is she?” the cleric asked Solas.

“Her magic is fighting me,” he said. “But I have hope. Even unconscious, she has extraordinary strength of will.” He seemed to hesitate for a moment, then said almost indifferently, “Her magic is quite strong. There’s something almost Elvhen about it.”

“That is the rumor,” Leliana said from the doorway. “One of the rumors, at least. The word in Haven regarding Lady Cirilla is contradictory. They speak of you as well, Messere Olgierd.”

“I’ve never claimed to be anything but a minstrel,” Olgierd said.

“That is what they also say,” Leliana said. She smiled, a lovely, knife-like thing that seemed to hold a promise of violence. “Do not leave Haven, Messere Olgierd.”

“Not until Ciri is well enough to travel, at least,” Olgierd agreed.

Leliana’s smile sharpened, and she disappeared around the folding screen to the Divine’s side of the room. The cleric lingered for another moment, eyes on Ciri’s sparking and glowing green palm, then rounded the screen as well.

“How is she really?" Olgierd asked quietly.

Solas kept his voice low. “I’m having difficulty keeping her magic and the magic in her palm from attempting to fight each other, or consume each other, where they meet. Her willpower, and her own magical strength, will determine if my efforts meet with success or failure.”

“And why doesn’t she wake?”

“I imagine the Fade has a hold on her mind,” Solas said. “For good or ill, she will wake when she is ready.”

Solas tilted Ciri’s head up with one hand and poured a small measure of a golden-green tonic in her mouth. He lightly stroked the front of her throat, and she swallowed reflexively. “You see? It is a healing sleep. She is no longer unconscious.”

“A small mercy, considering the state of things,” Olgierd said.

Solas looked at him from across the bed, and for a moment he felt scraped raw beneath the scrutiny. Then Solas blinked, leaving behind the humble mage in homespun. “Who is she to you?” he asked. “You seem like unlikely friends, and yet her dagger matches that jeweled chain of office you wear.”

“Her father saved my life from a demon,” Olgierd said. “It was my own fault. I meddled where I should have left well enough alone. But he interfered, played the creature’s game and won. I’d not thought to ever cross paths with him again, but one day an invitation found its way to an inn where I was whiling away my days. ‘Come and visit,’ it said. Little did I know it was his daughter and lover’s shared birthday. I had naught to give, so I gave Ciri my dagger.”

“An expensive gift to give a stranger,” Solas said.

“It seemed fitting,” Olgierd said, “as I’d already given her father the family sword.”

Solas shook his head. “You’re very generous with your family’s legacy.”

If only the rest of his legacy could be parceled out and given away like trinkets until there was nothing left, not even the memories. Then perhaps his ghosts would be satisfied.

“Geralt – Ciri’s father – risked everything to save me from my own errant stupidity,” Olgierd said. “Ciri seemed fully ready to dislike me when I arrived. I’ve no notion what she saw in me that changed her mind.”

“How long have you known her?”

Olgierd counted swiftly and found himself surprised. “Two and a half, no, three weeks.”

Solas blinked, and Olgierd could swear he saw amusement in his eyes, there and then not, before the mild expression returned. “Life moves quickly.”

Raised voices on the other side of the screen drew their attention. Olgierd turned from the bed to better hear the goings-on.

“Your Perfection –”

“Most Holy!”

“Justinia, please!”

He strained to hear the Divine’s words.

“ _...safe...Maker...providen...Leliana...quisit...”_

“Yes, but now?” the cleric exclaimed. At the Divine’s answer, he sighed heavily. “Of course. Of course, Most Holy.”

“We won’t let you down,” Cassandra vowed, voice thick.

“We are your hands,” Leliana said. “It shall be as you order.”

The Divine said something else, too quiet to hear, and her three visitors walked out from behind the screen. All three were red-eyed and somber, but their backs were straight and they looked intent.

Seeker Cassandra squared her shoulders and looked at Ciri, lying still and pale on her bed, then at Solas and Olgierd. “Let it be known that the Inquisition is reborn today, by order of Divine Justinia, head of the Chantry. This, her final edict, goes into effect immediately.”

“I'll tell Cullen to gather the Templars and to put out a call for recruits," Leliana murmured.

“And I shall send word to the remaining grand clerics. They’ll need to know of Most Holy’s condition, and of the deaths at the temple,” the cleric said.

“We will make this work, Chancellor Roderick,” Leliana said.

“Maker guide us," Chancellor Roderick answered her and strode out the door. Leliana followed on silent feet.

Cassandra stayed behind. “Most Holy believes that the Maker was acting through your friend,” she said. “That He guided her to act as His hand on Thedas. I pray that it is so. We need the Maker’s gaze on us in this hour.”

Olgierd wasn’t sure where to even start with that pile of religious nonsense. He addressed the larger issue instead. “What exactly is an Inquisition?”

“I suspect we are about to find out,” Solas said, dry as dust.

* * *

Things began happening very quickly after that. He didn't go to see it, but he was informed by Owain, who stuck his head in the door to check on Ciri, that the remaining Templars were now soldiers of the Inquisition. Several able-bodied tradesmen and women from Haven and the village at the base of the mountain had joined up as well.

Chantry mothers and sisters had turned their hands to sewing, creating pennants and banners. The smith by the stables had his men working from dawn to well after dusk forging armor and weapons. The few remaining Circle mages, led by Evelyn Trevelyan, organized a healing tent for wounded soldiers coming back from fighting the demons spat from the Breach.

That was another thing. _The_ Inquisition. _The_ Breach. _The Hand of the Maker_.

The last one put a pit in his stomach. This was not their world. He liked it well enough, had thought that he might make it his new home, but their religion was simultaneously foreign and familiar. It was too similar by half to the Church of the Eternal Fire and their witch-burning pyres in Hierarch Square. Now they were calling Ciri “the Hand of the Maker” and hailing her as their god’s mortal instrument on this world.

_Religious mobs turn ugly fast. If they find she’s not what they believe, they’ll tear her down as easily as they raised her up._

Evelyn and Maxwell had stopped by to see Ciri as well, as had Rona and Raúl. The two former Templars were on a short break before heading back up to battle the demons, but they seemed unharmed, if tired. Evelyn looked drained, leaning heavily on a mage’s staff, a smear of something suspiciously red along her jawline.

“The demons just keep coming,” she reported, accepting a small crimson vial from Adan the alchemist. “There are rifts opening, and they just spit out demons. Templars are trained to fight mages, or abominations should the worst happen. No one expects demons in the physical world, not unless they’ve been deliberately summoned. This is completely mad.”

Solas offered her a seat, but she declined and went back to the healing tent.

Adan shook his head. “We can’t take much more of this.”

“No,” Solas said, attention on Ciri’s hand once more. “No, we can’t.”

Maxwell’s appearance later in the day was brief. The young nobleman looked stressed, his hair rumpled, circles under his eyes.

“Sister Leliana has been asking questions,” he said. “She wants to know if I know where you’re really from.”

Solas’ eyes sharpened, and Olgierd gave Maxwell a warning look.

“I told her you were family friends, of course, trusted family friends, but I’m afraid I muddied the waters too well. You know that rumor that plagued us toward the end of our journey here? She’s rather intent on looking into that one.”

Olgierd leaned back in his seat and pressed a hand against his face, suddenly weary. “Maxwell. Go away.”

“I’m sorry, Lord Olgierd. No one could have predicted what happened.”

“Remove yourself before I become violent.”

“...I’m going.” Maxwell slunk from the room.

“Not my business," Adan announced and went around the screen to the ailing Divine with a bottle of dark red potion and a small spoon.

Solas looked at Olgierd, at Ciri’s carefully piled up armor and weapons, and said with the air of someone torn between curiosity and suspicion, “I have never before encountered anyone dressed the way you do. Nor have I ever seen the sort of arms and armor that my patient – your pardon, Ciri – has.”

“Perhaps you need to broaden your horizons,” Olgierd said.

“Hm." Solas smiled slightly at that and turned his attention back to Ciri’s hand.

The Divine passed on in the night. For one precarious moment in the morning when the news broke, it seemed like the Inquisition might break from the loss. Between Leliana, Cassandra, and Chancellor Roderick, however, they held it together, and the soldiers went out into the field with renewed determination. _For the Divine. For the Hand of the Maker. For the Inquisition._

Chantry clerics came for the body, taking it away on a makeshift bier to do whatever it was that Andrastians did to their dead. Cassandra arrived not long after, traces of dried tears on her face, looking for Solas.

“You say you studied the Fade,” she said.

“Yes, avidly,” he said. “There is always more to learn, but I believe I know more of the Fade than any Circle mage.”

“I need your opinion on these rifts," Cassandra said, and she hesitated. "Will the Hand be well if you step away for a while?"

If Olgierd’s ears didn’t deceive him, ‘Hand’ had been capitalized when she spoke.

“Her hand is as stable as I can manage,” Solas said. “She is merely sleeping now. She should wake soon, within the next few hours, but there is no way to be certain.”

“Your expertise is needed if we are to survive these rifts,” Cassandra said. “We have good men and women dying because we can’t close the cursed things.”

“I have a theory," Solas said. Cassandra nodded impatiently, and he continued. "This mark on my pa – on Ciri's hand seems to resonate with the same magic that the Veil between the worlds contains. I suspect that should she manage it, she could gain mastery over these rifts using this magic. In theory, she could not only close the rifts but the Breach itself."

“Then this is all a waiting game,” Cassandra said. She breathed deep and looked down at Ciri, eyes steely. “We hold the line until the Hand takes the field.”

Olgierd did not like the sound of that. Ciri was certainly capable, a formidable warrior with a great deal of magical power, but she was so young. These religious militants intended to hang the fate of their entire cause around her shoulders, if not the fate of their entire world.

She would want to stay and help, too. Olgierd knew it. And he owed too much to Geralt of Rivia to let her walk this path alone.

“We’re sending out another squad to hold the pass beyond the second bridge,” Cassandra said. “Any advice you could give the soldiers would be welcome.”

“I doubt peasants and former Templars will be inclined to listen to an apostate,” Solas demurred.

“I will _make_ them listen,” Cassandra said fiercely. “I will not shun expertise simply because I found it in an apostate and not a Circle mage. Come. Please.”

Solas stood from Ciri’s bedside and followed the Seeker out, leaving Olgierd alone with his thoughts.

Not for long, though. A whisper of footsteps and the barest clink of chainmail, and Sister Leliana sat beside him.

“‘Lord’ Olgierd von Everec,” she mused. “The minstrel with the scars that chill the blood.”

“Sister Leliana. How can I be of service?”

“You didn’t leave, that’s good. I’ve heard such interesting talk from the surviving mages and nobles that traveled with you to Haven,” she said.

“Do tell, Sister,” Olgierd said. “I’m dying of curiosity.”

Leliana held up a hand and began ticking off the rumors on her fingers. “A long-lost Trevelyan – absurd. Ostwick keeps diligent records of its noble families. The last scion of an exiled Nevarran noble family – also impossible. There has never been a von Everec family in Nevarra. Cassandra would know. An Orlesian bard – unlikely, as a bard must be beneath suspicion and you, Messere Olgierd, have an appearance that intimidates rather than invites. Lady Cirilla’s bodyguard – possible, even likely, by your behavior and refusal to leave her bedside, but even bodyguards must come from somewhere, no? So that leaves the last rumor.”

“You’ve a minor problem with your theory,” Olgierd said. “I’m clearly flesh and blood, Sister Leliana, not a creature of the Fade.”

“Yes, you and Lady Ciri both,” Leliana said. “But spirits have ways around that obstacle, I have been told.” She studied him with curious blue eyes. “Who was he? The scarred man you chose to possess? Did he call out to you as he lay dying?”

Olgierd couldn’t help it. A tiny wrinkle formed between Sister Leliana’s eyebrows as he laughed loudly. He put a hand on his scarred chest and tried to catch his breath, seeing her frown.

“Oh, Sister,” he said, shaking his head. “My life would be infinitely less complicated had some being of the Fade come along and taken it over. Alas, I’ve only ever been Olgierd von Everec.”

Her frown smoothed out, and she abruptly smiled. Not the knife-like smile from before, but a warm, inviting smile. “You don’t have to pretend,” she said gently. “I will not tell the Templars. There are Avvar legends of Fade spirits helping people in their time of need. If you and Lady Ciri are two such spirits, I am certain the Inquisition would welcome you.”

“A kind offer, but unnecessary,” Olgierd said. “I’m no spirit. Nor is Ciri.”

The smile disappeared as quick as it came, and Sister Leliana stood. “Think on it,” she said. “It will go better for you if you are honest. Should we find out otherwise, you may not enjoy the consequences.”

She left with the same quiet rustle of chainmail.

_Fucking witch hunters._

“We are in a world of shit,” he told Ciri. “You should have burned that letter when it came through.”

He looked up at a knock on the door frame. Varric the dwarf peered around the side, Solas behind him.

“Grab your sword,” Varric said. “You’re wanted for the push past the bridge.”

“And Ciri?” he asked roughly.

“The Seeker is coming to watch over her,” Solas assured him. “She won’t be left unattended.”

With one last look at Ciri, still dead to the world, he fixed his saber to his belt and followed Varric and Solas from the Chantry.

Perhaps it was time to stretch his legs. He’d been growing restive, and there was nothing like facing an enemy to focus the mind.


	6. Titles and Rifts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ciri has a strange dream and wakes to an urgent situation. She learns her new title and is rightly worried.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> beta-read by brightspot149 -- thank you!
> 
> Recognizable dialogue comes from Dragon Age: Inquisition. I make no claim to it.

She watched from a high cliff, toes right at the edge. Below her, spread out like a living carpet, a sea of people gathered. Rich and poor, young and old, human and elven. All stood silent and placid, faces impassive, eyes fixed on something she couldn’t see.

“They’re tended well, _Zireael_ ,” Avallac’h said from his place at her side.

Somehow, she knew that this was not her former captor turned co-conspirator. But Avallac’h would suffice as a name. She felt oddly calm in the being’s presence, unafraid despite the strangeness of the situation and the sheer drop at her feet.

“They wish to dream,” Avallac’h continued, “and so we give them dreams. Old Elvhen dreamers wished for glory, and spirits showed them wonders. Tevinter magisters hungered for power, and their nights were graced with visions of Elvhenan.”

The being swept a hand out at the still and silent masses. “The Alamarri dreamt of freedom, and they were given a champion. Young Orlais wanted unification, and Jeshavis learned the Grand Game in her sleep.

“Dreams are simple,” Avallac’h said. “The hungry dream of full bellies. The poor dream of full purses. The lonely dream of lovers. An elven spy dreams of freedom for the elves of Orlais. A Ferelden queen dreams of an answer to a long-sought question. A Templar dreams of past mistakes and a lake of blue.

“Did you enjoy your dreams, _Zireael_?”

Ciri nodded.

“Good. Your magic is ancient, familiar. I want you to have pleasant dreams in this world.”

“Triss didn’t,” Ciri said.

The being with the familiar face smiled. “You were angry with her. Did you not wish her punished?”

“No!”

“I misunderstood. My apologies. She has slept well since your reconciliation.”

Ciri looked down at the still people. “Are they all dreaming right now?”

“Are you dreaming?”

“I...don’t think so.”

“The mind can be both dreaming and awake within the dream,” Avallac’h told her. “You are aware, yet dreaming. They are dreaming, yet unaware.”

“And how am I watching their dreams?”

“You are untethered to this world,” Avallac’h said. “You, the demon summoner, and the sorceress. You dreamed because I wish to see you, to understand you.”

Ciri looked harder at the sea of people. A small gap opened between two dreamers, and she thought she caught a glimpse of something, a spectral shackle, latched around a wrist.

“Untethered?”

Her hand cramped, and she shook it out, grimacing.

“You will stay,” Avallac’h said. “A tether will find you, sooner or later.”

* * *

She blinked and woke to stone walls, the dream fading from her mind like morning mist.

“At last!” an unfamiliar voice cried in relief.

Ciri sat up groggily, the blanket falling to her waist. _What?_

The owner of the voice leaned over her bed. She had a stern, angular face, and wore functional armor covered by a tabard decorated by a large eye surrounded by flames. “You are back in Haven,” she told Ciri. “What do you remember?”

_The corridor. Silence. The voice._

"I was investigating the temple for threats before allowing the Trevelyans to go up," Ciri said. "There was a corridor that was muffled, silent. Magic was being used to keep sound from traveling out. I followed it and went down a set of stairs, and at the bottom, the spell ended. I heard someone cry out for help, and when I went in –" She broke off, frustrated. "It goes blank after that. There are flashes. I was, _we_ were running. Things chased us – impossible things. The woman who called for help, did she….”

“You saved her from the explosion,” the woman said, “but she passed on last night. She is at the Maker’s side now.”

“ _Explosion_?”

A sharp pain pierced her left hand, and she clenched it, gritting her teeth.

“Yes, an explosion. Look at your hand,” the woman commanded. “Do you not know how this happened?”

She recoiled at the sight. It was like someone, or something, had sliced a hole across her palm, and a throbbing, flaring green light was spilling out from within.

“I – _no_.”

“Then you know as much as we do." The woman offered her a hand up and began to briskly pass her the pieces of her armor. "There's not much time. Our forces are barely holding back the demons –”

“ _Demons_?”

“It will be easier to show you. Hurry.”

Ciri donned her armor as fast as she could, trousers tucked into boots, leather jerkin over linen shirt, chainmail jacket over that, bandolier full of sword oils draped across her chest. She pulled on her gauntlets, buckled her belt around her waist, and accepted her swords and dagger from the woman.

"Follow me," the woman said curtly and led her from the room. 

_The chantry?_ Ciri didn’t have time to dwell on her surroundings. The woman strode to the doors of the chantry and threw them open. “There,” she said, pointing off in the distance.

Right above where the Temple of Sacred Ashes had been, where the woman said there had been an explosion, a hole tore open the sky. Yawning, seething, the same bright eerie green as the mark on her palm, it shot out globs of light that fell to earth with a trail of smoke. The hole itself had a long, winding tendril of light reaching down from its mouth.

Ciri gaped. “That’s not possible.”

“Clearly, it is very possible,” the woman said dryly. “I take it you also do not remember this.”

“Not a solitary thing.”

The hole in the sky pulsed violently, and her hand spasmed. “Son of a whore!” she gasped, knees buckling.

“The mark upon your palm is tied to the Breach,” the woman said. “We believe that you may be the key to stopping this.”

“Stopping this?” Ciri echoed. “You haven’t even told me what happened to my companions! Where is Olgierd? The Trevelyans?”

“Alive, and helping,” the woman said. “As I hope you will. Please. You may be our only hope.”

“But _how_ can I – oh. I see. Lead on,” Ciri said firmly.

Sympathetic magic. Someone had made a mistake in leaving their magic behind in Ciri. It wasn’t her own nigh-untamable Source magic. This, she swore she would bend to her will.

Some of the tension left the woman’s face, and she looked almost hopeful. “Then you will help us?”

“I’ll do everything I can,” Ciri promised. “You have my word.”

“Then perhaps we will survive this after all,” the woman said. “Come with me. It’s too dangerous to take the horses. We must travel on foot.”

Ciri found herself following the insignia of the eye wreathed in flames as Cassandra jogged steadily ahead of her, her shield strapped to her back. Their passage didn’t go unnoticed; some Chantry folk and tradespeople caught sight of them and called out blessings.

“Andraste watch over you!”

“Maker go with ye, Lady Hand!”

“Bless you, Seeker!”

“Who are you, exactly?” Ciri asked as they crossed the first bridge. “Seeker? Lady Hand?”

The woman looked slightly embarrassed. “My apologies, my lady. I am Cassandra Pentaghast, Seeker of the Chantry and Right Hand to the Divine – the late Divine. I already know who you are. Lady Cirilla, though you prefer to be called Ciri.”

“So both titles were yours,” Ciri said.

“No,” Cassandra corrected her. “No, they were calling _you_ Lady Hand.”

Ciri looked at her glowing palm dubiously. She’d heard stranger, but it was a near-run thing.

Another pulse ripped through her hand. She gritted her teeth against a scream, locking her knees to keep from falling.

Cassandra braced her with a strong arm until the pain passed. “The pulses are coming faster now,” she observed. “The Breach has become more unstable. It’s good you woke when you did.”

“Where are we going?” Ciri asked. “Back to the temple?”

“No,” Cassandra said as they began to jog again. “Your mark must be tested on something smaller first. If you can close the rifts, perhaps we will gain footing against the demons we face in the valley. The Breach itself – that is something we can only pray you can affect.”

“Tell me about these rifts.”

“The explosion you and Most Holy survived caused the Breach,” Cassandra said. “In turn, every time the Breach expands, it creates rifts in the Fade that let demons out into the world. Everything farther in the valley was laid waste by the fiends. You’ll see for yourself soon enough.”

“How did I survive the explosion?” Ciri asked.

“To hear the Templars and the Vashoth mercenaries tell it, you stepped from a rift with the Divine carried in your arms,” Cassandra said. “Then you fell unconscious. You’ve been asleep for the last three days.”

They reached the second bridge, just past where she’d caught up to Maxwell and turned him back toward Haven. Stacks of supplies lined the sides, and a squad of soldiers in steel and brown leather clustered at the end.

“Lady Seeker!” one of them called out. “You just missed the last team. They’ve pushed into the valley by now.”

“We’ll catch up to them,” Cassandra said, striding onto the bridge. “Give me an update on the area.”

“Maker, is that her?” the soldier said, eyes wide. “Is that the Hand?” He crossed back toward the Seeker. “Lady Hand, it’s an hon–”

A sizzling lump of glowing green debris plowed through the soldier and into the bridge, shattering the stones and sending soldiers flying like broken dolls. The force of the impact hurled Ciri through the air, and she tucked her head and rolled, coming smoothly to her feet. The Seeker landed jarringly hard, but got to her feet and drew her sword and shield without so much as a wince.

“Swords out!” Cassandra called as the surviving two soldiers picked themselves up painfully. “Demons!”

Ciri didn’t see demons, but she did see bubbling, glowing ooze dotted around the ice surrounding the broken bridge. Then a clawed hand shot out of one of the puddles of ooze, and oh. So _that_ was a demon.

The thing screeched and rushed at her, claws outstretched. She spun away, silver sword at the ready, knees bent. It flew at her again, claws raking her chainmail jacket with a crunching sound. She tore free, cleaving it from one lumpy shoulder to the opposite side of its thick gray waist. It shrieked and backed away, racing toward the wounded soldiers.

She took a breath and looked around the strange battlefield. Cassandra was holding strong, hacking the demon with her sword and retreating behind her shield when it tried to swipe at her. The two soldiers, though….

She stepped through the emptiness and reappeared behind the demons pressing the wounded soldiers. A flash of her sword and the one she’d injured before fell for good, dissolving into green goop at her feet. The other demon turned on her with a scream of outrage, and one of the soldiers took advantage of its distraction to stab it from behind.

She flexed her left hand, wincing. When she’d gone through the space between, it had felt heavy, leaden almost.

With a mighty blow, Cassandra cut her demon down and crossed the ice to Ciri and the soldiers.

“Thank you, Lady Hand,” one of the soldiers said.

“That was unlike any Fade step I have ever seen,” Cassandra said.

Ciri had a suspicion that ‘what’s a Fade step?’ was not the right answer. “My magic is unusual,” she said instead.

“Yes,” Cassandra said. She peered at Ciri as if she might see inside her to the magic within if she just stared hard enough. “Elvhen. I heard the rumors.”

“Lady Seeker, your pardon,” the other soldier said. He winced and pressed a hand to his side. “With only two of us, we can’t hold the bridge.”

“Not that there’s a bridge to hold anymore,” the first soldier said.

“Fall back to Haven,” Cassandra ordered them. “The healing tent will see to your wounds.”

The soldiers bowed stiffly, fists over their hearts, and hobbled back towards Haven. Ciri and Cassandra carried on, climbing up the bank of the frozen lake and making their way forward.

“Where are the rest of your men?” Ciri asked as they resumed their trek.

"Some are at the forward camp," Cassandra said. "Many are fighting. We aim to join one of those groups. But we are on our own for now." 

She passed Ciri four small vials of a bright red potion. “Here. Take these potions. Maker knows what we will face next.”

“What’s in them?” Ciri asked, leery. Witcher potions had all manner of terrible side effects for non-mutated humans.

“Elfroot, I believe,” Cassandra said. “Have you never taken one?”

“Is that so odd?”

“For a warrior? Very.”

Ciri tucked them away carefully with her blade oils. She hoped not to need one. She didn’t even know what elfroot was.

There were bodies strewn along the trail, mangled corpses of Templars and soldiers alike. Ciri thought she recognized one of the Templars from the journey to Haven, small and twisted in death, and she looked away and hurried on.

Twice more they were attacked, first by a pair of the gray clawed demons, and almost immediately after by another gray demon and an ethereal green thing that spat some sort of gaseous poison. Between the two of them, the demons were dispatched easily, and Ciri took a moment to fetch a blade oil and a cloth from her bandolier.

“What is that?”

“Specter oil,” Ciri said, wiping off the demonic ichor and pouring a few drops of blade oil down the edges of her sword. “Bear fat, mistletoe, arenaria, wolf’s liver, and essence of wraith. It may help with what we’re facing.”

Ciri could see the questions chase each other across Cassandra's face, but in the end, all she asked was, "Arenaria?" 

“Little white five-petaled flowers that grow on bushes in mountainous areas,” Ciri said.

“Sandwort? That’s a local flower. I’ve never heard of it having any useful properties against demons.” She shook her head. “Never mind. Use your specter oil. I will want to know more about your techniques and equipment later, however – after we survive.”

Ciri agreed, and they pressed on, up the stairs and over the bank. A sizzling crack of green light streaked past them, and Cassandra cried out.

“It never ends, does it?” Ciri asked, and shot forward, sword in hand.

She left the cluster of demons to the right to Cassandra, charging into the trio straight ahead. She stepped through the ether, coming out to deliver a backhand slice to a gray demon. She spun neatly and blocked a heavy blow from its claws. A final thrust and it fell. She teleported across the field to a gaseous demon, stumbling as she came out into a cloud of corrosive vapor. Coughing, she lashed out. A hard slash, then a lunge. The thing stilled, then vanished.

She stopped to breathe. The specter oil hadn’t made things worse, but it didn’t seem to make things better, either. In fact, she had the oddest feeling that the clawed demon had been amused by her effort.

Up the winding stone stairs they went. Ciri cocked her head. “Do you hear that?”

“Fighting,” Cassandra said, picking up the pace. “Those are the men we’re to meet. Hurry! We must help them!”

Ciri ran on, rounding the final curve of stairs and dashing across the level ground toward a jagged, shining tear in the air, and men fighting more of those gray-skinned demons. The tear shifted and pulsed with the sound of shattered glass grinding against itself. A glint of sunlight on red hair caught her eye, and she dropped over the ledge, sword in hand, to join the fight.

“Olgierd!”

“Ciri!” he called back, hacking a demon nearly in two. “You’ve awakened!”

A soldier fell to a demon’s claws with a wail. Ciri whirled around to deal it a blow only to see it go up in flames, shrieking.

Someone grabbed her left wrist in an iron grip and thrust her hand at the shining tear.

“Quickly!” the person shouted at her. “Before more come through!”

 _It is my_ _magic now. It will do my bidding._

She focused on the sensation in her hand and _pushed_ at the tear. The light came streaming from her palm in a tingling, sparking flood, connecting to the tear with a _snap!_ and sealing it shut.

“You were right, Cassandra,” she said, pulling away from the hand holding her wrist. “It does work.”

“Our elven friend was the one who thought that up,” Olgierd said. “He’s some manner of expert on the Fade.”

“Lucky we have one, too,” a dwarf said, adjusting the cuffs on his leather coat. He looked down at the dead soldier and shook his head. “Poor bastard. Should have listened to the briefing.”

“The credit is yours,” the elven mage said to Ciri, inclining his head ever so slightly. “I merely theorized that the mark on your hand was of the same magic that created the Breach in the sky, and thus capable of closing the rifts that opened in its wake. And it seems I was correct.”

“Meaning it could also close the Breach itself,” Cassandra said.

“Possibly,” the mage said. He gave Ciri a look she couldn’t quite interpret. “It seems you hold the key to our salvation.”

_Damn it, again?_

“I’m just happy I can help,” she said, keeping her frustration locked behind her teeth.

“Good to know,” the dwarf said. “And here I thought we’d be ass deep in demons forever.” He strolled over from the dead body and looked up at Ciri, affecting a charming smile. “Varric Tethras – rogue, storyteller, and occasionally, unwelcome tagalong.”

He winked at Cassandra, and she grimaced.

Ciri looked him over. He did seem to have a certain roguish appeal, a sparkle in his blue eyes that made up for his badly broken nose. His ears were pierced with heavy gold rings, his face was clean-shaven – unusual for a dwarf of the Continent – and he wore an embroidered red silk shirt that gaped open well past his sternum, revealing a very furry chest.

“That’s a marvelous crossbow,” Ciri complimented him, gesturing to the weapon slung over his shoulder.

“Isn’t she?” Varric said, beaming. “Bianca and I have been through a lot together.”

Ciri had heard of stranger names for weapons. “I understand the sentiment. I’d not have survived some of the things I’ve seen without my _Zireael_.”

That spark in his eyes seemed to intensify. “ _Tzee-rayyel_ and Bianca will be great company in the valley.”

“Absolutely not!” Cassandra objected. “Your help is appreciated, Varric, but –”

“Seeker, the valley is overrun,” Olgierd cut in. “We’d be dead thrice over this past hour without his assistance. I’d rather his crossbow at my back than a dozen of your soldiers.”

Varric tried out his charming grin on Cassandra. She groaned in disgust and threw her hands up, turning away.

“My name is Solas, if there are to be introductions,” the mage said. “I’m pleased to see you awake and on your feet.”

“You’d likely be dead if it weren’t for Solas,” Olgierd said. “He’s spent the last three days pouring magic into your palm and potions down your throat.”

Solas seemed to blend into the scenery at first glance. Despite being quite tall for an elf of Thedas, his clothes, his expression, his tone of voice, all seemed designed to make him disappear rather than stand out.

Then the oddities started to jump out at her. He wasn’t just quite tall, he was almost as tall as Olgierd. His ears were smaller than any of the other elves’ that she’d seen since arriving in Thedas. His eyes, keen and steady, were an unusual shade of lavender-gray, set in a long, pale face.

She realized she’d been staring without saying anything for several seconds and thought quickly. “It’s strange for an apostate to volunteer his services to the Chantry. They’re lucky someone so knowledgeable decided to join.”

Solas blinked, and the keen gaze dropped. “My travels have allowed me to learn much of the Fade, far beyond the experience of any Circle mage. When I saw the Breach, I came to offer whatever help I could give. If it is not closed, we are all doomed, regardless of origin.”

“If only more people had that attitude,” Ciri said.

“It’s merely common sense,” Solas said. “Although sense seems to be in short supply right now. Cassandra, I’ve already told you that the magic involved here is unlike any I have seen. Lady Ciri is a mage, for all that she chooses to fight with a sword, but this was clearly not her doing. Indeed, I find it difficult to imagine any mage having such power.”

“Most Holy said so as well,” Cassandra said. “No, the Hand is innocent in this.” She shook her head and turned toward the path leading down the bank. “We must get to the forward camp quickly.”

Olgierd grabbed Ciri’s elbow and pulled her back, letting Varric and Solas follow Cassandra first.

“Olgierd?”

“It’s good to see you alive,” he said. His hand trembled slightly, and he patted her on the shoulder.

“Did it look so bad?” she asked.

“You’ll understand when you see the temple.” He scoffed under his breath. “I thought Geralt was going to hunt me down and kill me.”

“I’m sorry I worried you.”

“Try not to do it again.”

They walked a pace behind the other three, swords out and eyes ahead. A thought crossed Ciri’s mind, and she asked Olgierd, “What’s this business about calling me ‘Lady Hand?’ Did someone see the glowing palm and decide to give me a title based on some misplaced magic?”

Olgierd looked at the Seeker and lowered his voice, wariness written across his face. “Ciri. They’re calling you the Hand of the Maker. They’re deifying you.”

“They’re _what_?”

* * *

The rope of green light sizzled and snapped, and the tear in the veil sealed with the sound of grinding glass. As Solas’ barrier spell melted off her body, Ciri shook out her hand and walked past the tent marking the start of the forward camp, through the doors and onto the crowded bridge. At the halfway point, a cowled woman in a chainmail brigandine stood with a middle-aged man in a Chantry habit. They were bent over a table together, poring over a map.

“–Nearly overrun, we have to shore them up.”

“And the squad in the mountains? Am I to write them off?”

“Send the Qunari after them.”

“We can’t; half the Valo-Kas Mercenaries were dispatched to assist Cullen. The other half are recovering back at Haven.”

“When will they return?”

“Not soon enough.”

The pair of them looked up, and the man in the chantry habit seemed to sag in relief before straightening. “Ah. Here they come.”

“Chancellor Roderick,” the cowled woman said, sharp eyes not missing any of their assorted scrapes and cuts, “this is –”

“Justinia’s savior,” he interrupted. “However briefly. You have our thanks, Lady Cirilla, for your efforts.”

“Please, call me Ciri,” she said. _Not ‘Lady Hand of the Maker.’_

Chancellor Roderick nodded and turned back to the map. “It’s good you’ve arrived. Commander Cullen sent back a runner to report increased numbers of demons in their area.”

“And an entire squad went missing on the mountain path that we were using to avoid the rifts,” the woman added.

Cassandra frowned. “We need to reach the Breach before it’s too late.”

“What are our options?” Ciri asked.

“In all honesty, our position here looks hopeless,” Chancellor Roderick said. “We’re doing all we can just to maintain our footing.”

The woman shook her head. “There are two options that I can see.”

She trailed off, eyes on the map, and Cassandra prompted her with an impatient, “Leliana?”

“You could join Commander Cullen in the valley, use his men for cover to press forward,” she said. “It would be the fastest route.”

“Or?” Ciri asked.

“Or you could have him charge with the soldiers as a distraction while you take the mountain path. It would be safer,” she said, “but indirect. And you may find an answer to the disappearance of my scouts while you’re there.”

Cassandra lurched forward, hand on her sword hilt. “You wish to send the Hand through the path where your scouts went missing? It’s too risky!”

Ciri grimaced. This was not what she’d signed up for when she’d agreed to play bodyguard for the Trevelyans. She’d had her fill of prophecies and religious fanaticism. Emhyr, the Aen Elle, the Church of the Eternal Fire...by the time she’d faked her death, she was heartily sick of it.

How did a simple contract go so wrong?

Leliana's sharp eyes didn't miss her unhappy expression. "It is your choice, of course, Lady Ciri," she said. "You are the one we must keep alive." 

Ciri had the feeling that she was being weighed and measured for her response. She met Leliana’s gaze squarely. “We’ll take the mountain path. Tell your commander to gather the soldiers and charge. You know what’s at stake. All of Thedas is at risk if we don’t succeed.”

The Breach pulsed, and Ciri grabbed her wrist as the mark flared with light and pain in response.

“Are you well?” Olgierd asked her urgently.

“Fine,” she said. “I’m fine.”

“Leliana, bring everyone left in the valley,” Cassandra told sharp-eyed Leliana. “Everyone.”

Leliana nodded, and as they passed her, she murmured, “Messere Olgierd.”

“Sister,” he muttered back.

“Maker go with you all,” Chancellor Roderick called after them.

* * *

The climb up the mountain was steep and gusty. Icy cold wind blew snow into their faces. Ciri had almost lost sensation in her feet by the time they reached the platform to the first ladder.

“The tunnel should be just ahead,” Cassandra shouted as Ciri climbed the ladder. The wind carried her words away, and she had to strain to hear the Seeker’s voice. “The path to the temple lies just beyond it.”

Solas asked something that she didn’t hear, and Cassandra answered loudly, “Part of an old mining complex. The mountains are full of such paths.”

“And your missing scouts are in there somewhere?” Varric said, voice rising above the high wind.

“No doubt keeping company with some manner of demon, Fade rift, or other interesting surprise,” Olgierd said.

“We shall see soon enough,” Cassandra said.

Keeping her footing on the narrow wooden platform was tricky in the turbulent, chilly wind. Ciri kept a hand on the wet rock face and moved forward at a slow but steady pace, aiming for the next ladder. The old wooden planks creaked ominously underfoot, and one or two seemed suspiciously soft.

“Skip this one!” she called over her shoulder as a plank bent beneath the probing weight of her foot.

“Shit. Good catch.” Varric stepped over the plank carefully.

They continued on, up the second ladder and along the next wooden platform to the open mouth of the tunnel. A hushed rasping sound caught Ciri’s attention, and she held up a hand.

Solas immediately cast a barrier, the cool blue spell falling over their group, coating them in a thin layer of temporary arcane armor.

Cassandra peeked around the corner, held up three fingers, and barreled forward, shouting a challenge. The four of them scrambled to keep up with her, Olgierd and Ciri rushing to help her with a clawed gray demon and Solas and Varric taking on two of the gaseous ones.

“Could you not give more of a warning?” Olgierd asked Cassandra as the last demon fell.

“Time is of the essence,” Cassandra said. “We must be swift.”

“Swift, yes,” Ciri said. “Foolhardy, no. Wait for us next time.”

“I – yes. I understand.”

‘Tunnel' had been an understatement. The mountain was hollowed out, with flagstone floors and stone walls and pillars. A short way in, a low railing was the only thing separating them from a deep chasm in the earth. 

“What do you suppose they mined here?” Ciri asked, looking over the railing into the black depths.

“I’m no expert,” Varric said. “You’d need a real Orzammar dwarf for that. But based on trade the Merchants’ Guild gets from these parts, I’d say iron and obsidian, maybe drakestone.”

Iron and obsidian were familiar to her. Drakestone was new. Perhaps it had a different name on the Continent.

More demons awaited them at the top of the stairs, including a gray-skinned demon with a large crest. Again Cassandra led the charge.

When all the demons had fallen, Solas looked at her with a strange expression on his face. “How do you do that? Step through space to reappear elsewhere on the battlefield? That’s clearly not a Fade step.”

“I just gather my magic and do it,” Ciri said. “It’s instinctive.”

“Ah,” Solas said. “It’s fascinating to watch.” He seemed disappointed by her lack of a better answer, but then, he was hard to read.

Scattered bodies lay at the mouth of the tunnel as it opened out on the other side of the mountain.

“Guess we found our missing scouts,” Varric sighed.

Cassandra shook her head. “This cannot be all of them.”

Olgierd knelt beside one of the corpses. “Look here, Cassandra...claw marks. They were unprepared for the demons. Should survivors be up ahead, they’ll not hold out for much longer.”

“Our priority must be the Breach,” Solas said. “Unless we seal it soon, no one is safe.”

“I’ll leave that to the lady with the glowing hand,” Varric said.

They continued past the corpses of the scouts and down the mountain trail. The sounds of shouting, and of cracking, grinding glass, floated toward them on the wind.

“Hurry!” Cassandra cried.

They raced down the path and around the bend to see four exhausted scouts pressed hard by demons, fighting around a Fade rift.

“Lieutenant!” Cassandra called out. “You’re alive!”

Ciri stepped through the emptiness to come out behind a clawed demon and strike it down, giving the scout a chance to breathe. She turned her attention to the cracking Fade rift and raised her hand, a thought striking her.

_Maybe…_

The rift flared and calmed suddenly as the magic in her palm connected with it and overwhelmed it. The remaining demons froze, stunned, and Olgierd and Solas wasted no time in finishing them off.

_Good._

Ciri relaxed, then tensed again as the rift, instead of closing like before, shot out two insubstantial tendrils of green light that hit the ground in two sizzling puddles.

“Okay, something new,” Varric said uneasily.

“This doesn’t bode well,” Olgierd agreed.

With a sharp crack, the rift returned to its jagged formation. Two enormous spindly things, green and long-limbed with thick, spiny tails, leaped from the glowing pools with twin shrieks.

 _Breathe. Step._ She came out behind the farthest one. She spun quickly, striking hard. It lashed out with long arms, and she parried the blow. 

The other landed in their midst with a heavy shockwave, knocking them flat. Cassandra regained her footing first, smacking it away with her shield.

 _And step_. She thrust her blade into the demon’s concave middle, and it dissolved around the hilt. She dodged another blow from the first demon, somersaulting out of reach, then darting back in to slice at its back. Solas froze it solid with a spell, and it shattered beneath a cleaving blow of Olgierd’s saber.

She raised her palm to the Fade rift, the spindly demons in piles of goo at their feet, and willed it shut. With a cracking, grinding shudder, it obeyed her.

“Sealed, as before,” Solas said, coming to stand beside her. “The mark on your hand responds well to your commands.”

“Whoever left this magic on my hand made a terrible mistake,” Ciri said, clenching her fist. “I’ve had a lifetime of learning to harness difficult magic. This will be no different.”

“Don’t get cocky, Sparrow,” Varric said. “We still don’t know if it’ll work on the big one.”

“Sparrow?” Ciri asked, smiling a little.

Varric made a flitting gesture with his hand. “You know. You flit around the battlefield like a little bird, the way you step in and out of reality. Sparrow. You know what? Forget it. I’ll come up with something else.”

“No, no,” Ciri said. “It’s only that my name, Cirilla – it means swallow.”

“Well, I’ll be damned,” Varric chuckled. “In what language?”

Ciri swore in her head and scrambled for an answer. Luckily, one of the scouts interrupted, diverting the conversation.

“Thank the Maker you finally arrived, Lady Cassandra. I don’t think we could have held out much longer.”

“It was not my doing, Lieutenant, but the Hand’s,” Cassandra said. “She decided our path.”

Ciri winced at the unwanted title. She’d heard what happened to their Maker’s bride, and had no desire to find out what would happen to their Maker’s hand. A pyre in this world’s version of Hierarch Square seemed likely.

“The Hand of the Maker?” the scout said, looking at Ciri with wondering eyes. “My lady, I’m honored.”

“ _Please_ don’t call me that,” Ciri snapped. At the scout’s shocked look, she sighed and said, “Never mind. I’m just happy we got here in time.”

The scout bowed, fist over her heart. “You have my sincere gratitude, Lady Ha – my lady.”

Cassandra pointed back toward the tunnels. “The way behind us is clear for the moment. Go back to Haven while you still can.”

“At once. Quickly, let’s move!”

The scouts took off up the path, two of them leaning on each other for assistance. Ciri's group continued down toward the temple. 

As Varric and Solas chatted about the nature of the explosion behind her, Cassandra caught her attention, saying quietly, “The Divine herself called you the Hand of the Maker.”

“What happened to the last person with ‘of the Maker’ in their title, Cassandra?” Ciri asked.

Cassandra paled, and said fiercely, “We would not let that happen to you!”

“Have you ever seen someone being burned alive?” Ciri asked. “I have once. It’s an ugly death. Don’t make promises you can’t keep.”

Cassandra had no response to that. Ciri brushed past her to catch up to Olgierd.

“If they start chanting ‘Holy fire, enlighten, burn, and cleanse,’ we’re leaving,” she muttered to him, and he stifled a laugh with his hand.

“Now, now, dear,” Olgierd chided her lightly. “These poor fanatics have no competition in this land. Just think what a Temple of Melitele or Aesculapius would do for their culture.”

“Before or after they tried to kill their priests for heresy?”

The snow-covered path abruptly fell off into a black, smoking crater, and the light crunch of snow beneath Ciri’s feet gave way to ash and gravel.

“Templars handed you up to me right over there,” Olgierd said, pointing to a pile of rubble forty feet away. “You were still as a corpse.”

“I don’t know what I was expecting, but somehow, this is worse,” Ciri said.

The once-grand temple had been reduced to rubble. Shattered, broken, its pieces scattered with great force. All these lives, lost in an instant to some madman casting spells beyond his ability. And for what? Power? Revenge? Anarchy?

“Sheesh,” Varric muttered. “Look at them all.”

“I’m trying not to,” Ciri admitted. The sight of the burned corpses littering the pit was unsettling. Some were lying down, jaws wide in an endless silent scream. Others were standing, caught completely unawares. Still more were on their knees, arms outstretched as if in agony. 

They went forward, all humor forgotten.

A small fraction of the temple had survived, and they entered it. Here, there were bodies. There, a fire still burned. Ahead, a massive rift cracked and crunched above a deeper pit – the epicenter of the blast. And above the rift, swirling and churning with an ugly green light, was the Breach.

Varric whistled. “The Breach is a long way up.”

“Brilliantly observed,” Olgierd said. “Your keen eyes put my own skills of observation to shame. Have you any ideas to offer, Sir Dwarf, for how we might shut the damned thing?”

“Chuckles can take that one,” Varric said, indicating Solas with a jerk of his head.

Any advice Solas might have was cut off by Leliana running through the archway behind them, a handful of soldiers at her back.

“You’re here!” she said, visibly relieved. “Thank the Maker.”

Ciri counted the men and women with her and her heart sank. This was ‘everyone left in the valley?’ The demons were worse than she feared, or the soldiers unprepared or less capable than they should be. Either way, things looked dire.

Cassandra pointed to the few remaining walkways above the pit. “Leliana, have your men take up positions around the temple.”

Leliana turned away to instruct the soldiers, and Cassandra faced Ciri squarely. “This is our chance to end this. Are you ready?”

_I’ve faced worse and lived._

“Yes,” she said firmly. “Just give me a clear shot at it.”

A proud smile graced Cassandra’s stern face. “Most Holy was right to put her faith in you.”

“Still leaves us with the question of how, though," Varric said. 

“This rift was the first, and it is the key,” Solas said. “Seal it, and perhaps we seal the Breach.”

“...Still not hearing a how.”

“Let us find a way down, carefully,” Cassandra said. “We will give you your clear shot.”

They picked their way through the blown-out, devastated halls, the sound of grinding glass grating above their heads. Fingers of glowing rock jutted from the broken floor, the color of arterial blood.

“Shit,” Varric said, edging back. “Seeker. Red lyrium.”

“I see it, Varric.”

“Whatever you do, don’t touch it,” he told the others, looking unusually serious. “This stuff is evil.”

Ciri could believe it. It had a whining hum, a sort of crackling sound, and the air around it felt oppressive. She skirted it carefully, and the others did the same.

A deep, chilling voice boomed through the air, and they all froze for a moment, dropping their hands to their weapons.

“ _NOW IS THE HOUR OF OUR VICTORY. BRING FORTH THE SACRIFICE._ ”

“What are we hearing?” Cassandra asked Solas.

“At a guess?” Solas said. “The one who created the Breach.”

“ _KEEP THE SACRIFICE STILL.”_

The voice Ciri had heard in the Temple of Sacred Ashes called out, the air ringing with the sound of her desperation.

“ _Someone, help me!_ ”

“That is Divine Justinia’s voice!” Cassandra exclaimed.

“That’s what I heard,” Ciri told her. “My last clear memory is of that voice crying out for help.”

“And you did help her,” Cassandra said. “She passed to the Maker’s side among loved ones.”

If Ciri had truly succeeded, the Divine would still be alive. As a Witcher, she understood that she’d never be able to save everyone, that people would inevitably die. But it still grated when it happened under her watch.

They picked their way around the jutting spikes of red lyrium and ventured down into the pit where the enormous Fade rift awaited them.

“ _Someone, help me!_ ”

“ _Release her!”_

Cassandra looked torn between worry and admiration. “That is your voice. You didn’t hesitate for one moment.”

“You’ll come to learn that Ciri is not one for dithering about,” Olgierd said. “She’s much like her father in that respect.”

Ciri smiled at him gratefully, bolstered by the praise. She could think of no higher compliment than to be favorably compared to Geralt or Lady Yennefer.

The grinding glass of the rift shifted, the air in front of the fractured green tear growing smoky and thin. Ciri took an instinctive step back as shapes began to form in the smoke.

A massive, indistinct being – a man? – pointed with long fingers at a spectral Divine, her arms outstretched and bound by an arcane red light. A shadowy figure that looked like Ciri burst onto the scene, sword unsheathed.

“ _Release her!_ ”

“ _Run while you can_!” the figure of the Divine cried to the shadowy Ciri. “ _Warn them_!”

“ _WE HAVE AN INTRUDER_ ,” the massive man said, flat and unperturbed. His long fingers turned to point at the shadowy Ciri. “ _KILL HER. NOW._ ”

The vision faded back into the crunching glass of the rift.

“It is as Most Holy said,” Cassandra said. “You came to her rescue as if the Maker himself put you there to do so. The Maker guided you down that corridor.”

‘ _Holy fire, enlighten, burn, and cleanse,’_ Ciri thought, only a little hysterically. _At least it’s not three crones in a bog arguing over who gets to eat my feet and my tasty Elder blood._

“This is an echo of what happened here,” Solas said, neatly redirecting the conversation from Cassandra’s religious conviction. “The Fade bleeds into this place. This rift is not sealed, but it is closed...albeit temporarily. I believe that with the mark, the rift can be opened, and then sealed properly and safely. However, doing so will likely attract attention from the other side.”

Cassandra looked to the soldiers posted above with bows, and to Leliana and the handful of men and women armed with swords who’d followed them down into the pit. “That means demons!” she said, projecting her voice loudly. “Stand ready!”

Once everyone had taken their positions, Cassandra nodded to her. Ciri nodded back and raised her left hand to the rift.

 _If I can make you close, I can make you open_.

The rope of light connected with a snap, and she yanked the tear open wide. A beam of violent green light shot out from its center. She spun to face whatever had come out, sword raised.

_That was new._

A monstrously big demon, armored and spiked, with a cluster of tiny black eyes on its small head and a mouth full of needle-sharp teeth, raised its face to the Breach and roared.

“Now!” Cassandra cried.

The archers above shot a wave of arrows that the demon simply batted away. Cassandra shouted a challenge and charged it, undaunted. Olgierd followed close behind, swinging at the demon’s knees with a brutal chop of his saber.

Nothing was working. It was too strong, its armored hide too thick for their swords.

Ciri raised her hand again to disrupt the rift as she had the previous one. It seemed to work, and the demon staggered, falling to one knee.

“Nice one!” Varric said in passing as he loosed a bolt that punched a hole in the demon’s hard hide.

“Don’t congratulate me yet,” Ciri muttered.

Indeed, even more demons had fallen from the rift thanks to her little trick. She had to step through quickly to avoid the claws of a particularly fast gray-skinned demon.

She fell into a rhythm as the demons came, striking and spinning away, darting back to strike again. A parry to catch seeking claws, a twist to shove them back. A thrust of her sword to end them.

She stepped through the ether to a safe spot and disrupted the rift once more. The big demon went to one knee again. Ciri darted through nothingness, cutting a path through the gray-skinned demons to its side.

“I can’t keep disrupting the rift,” she told Cassandra, sheathing her silver sword in favor of _Zireael_. “Every time it goes back to normal, more demons come through.”

The demon started to get back to its feet, and Cassandra backed out of range. “You must. We’re only wearing it down.”

The demon laughed, dark and malevolent. A crackling whip of lightning lashed a soldier, and she screamed in pain.

Ciri shook her head and stepped across to the other side of the battlefield, seeing a small spot of calm. She raised her hand to the rift one more time.

_Let this be the last._

The armored demon staggered. _Enough already._ She stepped through space to its side landed on its back with a running leap. With one hard thrust, she shoved _Zireael_ through the back of its thick neck and out the front. It moaned and gurgled, swaying beneath her feet. She yanked _Zireael_ free and leaped off as the demon hit the ground with a heavy thud.

She looked around to see Olgierd dealing a heavy cutting blow to the last of the demons. As it fell, Cassandra yelled, “The rift! Do it now!”

Ciri lifted her hand again, this time to close it. The connection pulled at her, the rope snapping and crackling. She could feel it touching her own magic, and she pushed back, hard.

_No._

The rift fought her, resisted her. Above her, the Breach churned.

_No._

Exhaustion nibbled at the edges of her vision as the rift finally obeyed, shutting with a last cracking, grinding groan. She swayed in place dizzily.

“Ciri!” Olgierd’s voice seemed to come from far away.

Her legs went out from under her, and her eyes slid shut.

* * *

“You return so quickly, _Zireael_ ,” Avallac’h said. “Tell me; what do you think of demons?”


	7. First Impressions and New Commitments

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ciri has a meeting with the Left and Right Hands and the Lord Chancellor, and shares a little bit of her background. She meets two prisoners. The Trevelyans make a decision about the Inquisition.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beta-read by brightspot149. Thank you!

Ciri woke to the same stone walls as before. She had a nagging feeling that she’d been dreaming something important, but the more she reached for it, the further it slipped from her grasp. She slung her legs over the edge of the bed and stood, stretching stiff joints and muscles. How long had she lain asleep this time?

Someone had dressed her in clothes from her saddlebags, in her softest white shirt and her dark trousers. Her hair was a tangled mess, spilling over her shoulders and down her back in rumpled waves. She crossed to her bags at the foot of the bed and dug around for a leather cord to bind her hair back. Down at the very bottom, wrapped around Triss’ silver comb, she finally found one. She combed her hair into some semblance of order, twisted it into a loose bun, and tied it back, away from her face.

She shoved her feet into her armored boots and made for the door, sticking her head around the frame. Perhaps someone would have some answers for her.

“Hello?” she called out.

“Oh! My Lady Hand!” The young lay sister who’d directed their group to the cabin by the apothecary rushed to her. “You’re awake at last!”

Up and down the length of the chantry, heads turned. Eyes went wide, voices dropped, and hissing whispers rose behind hands.

“Yes, just a few minutes ago,” Ciri said, determinedly ignoring the onlookers. “What happened after I closed the rift? How long have I been asleep?”

The lay sister looked around, an anxious tension around her eyes. “My Lady Hand, perhaps someone more senior –”

“Please,” Ciri said. “Anything you could tell me would be helpful.”

“W-well,” the lay sister stuttered, “the Breach...the Breach has calmed, my Lady. It’s stopped growing, and the demons have stopped coming through.”

 _Damn it._ Then she hadn’t closed it.

“And how long ago was that?”

“Three days, my Lady Hand.”

 _Again_? “And my companions?” she asked. “Olgierd von Everec – where is he?”

The lay sister glanced at a door at the far end of the chantry. “My Lady Hand, Seeker Pentaghast could answer your questions better than I.”

“Olgierd, Sister,” Ciri pressed her. “Do you know where he is?”

“Please, my Lady Hand,” the lay sister said. “Speak to Seeker Pentaghast.” She turned and fled before Ciri could interrogate her further.

Ciri made her way to the door the lay sister had looked toward, her skin prickling under the watching eyes. The reverence in their gazes was unnerving. What exactly had the Divine said to make them look at her so?

Beyond the door was a small, windowless room dominated by a large table. Spread across the table was a map, presumably of Thedas, and standing around it were Cassandra, Leliana, and Chancellor Roderick.

“Lady Ciri,” Chancellor Roderick greeted her. “At last.”

“You’re well, my lady?” Cassandra asked.

“A bit annoyed by how much time I’ve spent unconscious, but other than that I’m fine,” Ciri said.

“You haven’t missed much,” Leliana told her. “We’ve been cleaning up the demons left behind. But it’s been remarkably quiet since you calmed the Breach.”

“A pity you weren’t able to close it entirely,” Chancellor Roderick said.

Ciri looked down at her marked hand. “I fear it will take more magic than I possess.” That, or greater familiarity with the mark.

“More than your mysterious Elvhen magic?” Leliana asked. Her voice was light, but Ciri could see the sharp intent in her eyes. “Rumors abound, Lady Ciri. Perhaps you could shed some light on them.”

Ciri steeled her spine against that sharp gaze. “What have you heard?”

“There is the rumor that you’re King Maric’s bastard,” Leliana said. “Dangerous, but not so dangerous as the one that has you as a bastard of the Valmont line. Then there are rumors of sworn vengeance against the Carta, that you fled an unwanted marriage, that you’re the mage daughter of a protective nobleman, that you’re the child of a knight and an apostate, that you’re the living legacy of an ancient Elvhen bloodline, and finally, that you’re a spirit of the Fade, come to help us in our hour of need.”

“Preposterous,” Cassandra huffed. “No spirit fights as she does.”

“And yet, she came from nowhere,” Leliana countered. “She and ‘Lord’ Olgierd both.”

“What do you believe?” Ciri asked.

“I believe you are a woman, flesh and blood,” Cassandra said. “Where you come from, how you got here – unnecessary. The Maker willed it.”

“That is how the Divine saw it, certainly,” Chancellor Roderick said. “I would feel more comfortable knowing that our savior has a family, a city she calls home. Even one person who knew you before the Trevelyans would be helpful.”

“There’s Olgierd,” Ciri said. Privately, she wasn’t sure how much their short time knowing each other counted.

“Sadly, he is as great a mystery as you are,” Leliana said. “Can you tell us nothing? It is clear which rumors are false, but the others – can you confirm any part to them?”

Speaking of her past always made Ciri uncomfortable. It felt awkward, revealing in ways that couldn’t be taken back. And what could she say? The most outlandish of them were true in her own world, though she was no bastard. She couldn’t produce Geralt and Lady Yennefer to prove the ‘knight and apostate’ rumor true. They’d likely accuse Geralt of being possessed by a demon if they saw his eyes.

Still, she had to give them something, even if it was the one she had the most mixed feelings over.

“My ancestor, Lara Dorren,” she said. “She was what you would consider an ancient elf. She married a human mage, Cregennan. That was several generations before my birth. Her magic was strong, unpredictable. I seem to have inherited its full potential, though I’ve no ability with conventional spells.”

Leliana scrutinized her. “That is not an elven name.”

“She was an elf, and it was her name,” Ciri said, annoyed.

“When we spread the story, we will have to tell people that she had a name they will believe one of the ancient Elvhen could have carried,” Leliana said. “Latharia, or Drynne.”

Ciri clenched her jaw. For all that she’d run from her past, run from the Aen Elle and Emhyr and the machinations of the Lodge, hearing her ancestor’s name mangled so casually made her bristle.

“I suppose that we wouldn’t find anything if we went looking for you,” Chancellor Roderick said.

“I don’t know what to tell you that will satisfy your curiosity,” Ciri said.

Leliana sighed. “No, it’s fine. We shall simply encourage a number of the more exciting rumors, and let word of mouth do our work for us.”

“But that is not why we wished to speak with you,” Cassandra said. “We wished to formally welcome you to the Inquisition.”

“It’s not much to boast of, currently,” Chancellor Roderick said. “Nearly half our forces were lost to the demons.”

“The passes are clear for travel now,” Cassandra said. “Word will spread of the Inquisition, and many will join our cause.”

Ciri coughed. “I’m sorry. What exactly is an Inquisition?”

“We are,” Leliana said. “This is. Founded by the final edict of Divine Justinia.”

“Most Holy’s original intention was to pursue an end to the mage rebellion and bring the Templars back to the fold,” Cassandra said. “Now, it is clear we have a new mandate.”

Ciri thought she understood. “You speak of the Breach. And whoever created it.”

Leliana nodded. “Precisely. While there is a chance that they perished, it is far more likely that they escaped, and rejoined allies who yet live.”

“Our pool of suspects is great, and our leads are few,” Chancellor Roderick said, deeply unhappy. “And that is merely the start of our problems.”

Cassandra looked irritated. “Most Holy spoke her mind, and I believe her.”

“And the remaining grand clerics won’t!” he snapped. “Her words about Lady Cirilla being ‘the Hand of the Maker’ will scare half of them away, if not cause a second schism.”

“It would have been more politic for Justinia to say it was Andraste working through you, not the Maker,” Leliana said. “Marginally less heretical, certainly. But we must work with the hand we’ve been dealt.”

This again. For a brief, shameful moment, she wished she’d taken longer to explore Haven. Perhaps someone else would have been saddled with this ridiculous title instead.

“You don’t honestly believe I’m the Hand of the Maker, do you?” she asked. “You can’t. It’s absurd.”

Cassandra nodded firmly despite Ciri’s protest, but Leliana and Chancellor Roderick exchanged a look that spoke volumes.

“You are a mystery, a woman with no past who saved the Divine and survived both an explosion and a journey through the Fade, according to the Templars who found you,” Leliana said. “It is easy to see why Justinia believed your presence to be the will of the Maker. But the Maker’s work is hard to interpret.”

“Whether the Maker guided you or not, Justinia believed you were His instrument,” Chancellor Roderick said. “Our opinion doesn’t matter. We were her faithful servants. We still are, until a new Divine is called.”

“No one can pretend that you were not exactly who we needed when we needed it,” Cassandra said.

“Just watch the grand clerics do precisely that,” Chancellor Roderick said.

“Josephine may be able to intervene there,” Leliana said. At Ciri’s blank look, she explained, “Josephine Montilyet, the Inquisition’s ambassador. Now that the passes are clear of demons, she should be arriving in the next day or two.”

“We still need to introduce you to Commander Cullen, as well,” Cassandra said. “Perhaps you might seek him out on the training field.”

“Not so fast,” Leliana said. “Lady Ciri, I have a small task for you. You made a thorough investigation of Haven before you went to the Temple of Sacred Ashes, did you not?”

“I did,” Ciri confirmed. “Lord Declan and Lady Corin Trevelyan hired me to escort their children to and from the Conclave safely. I considered it a part of the job.”

“Then perhaps you might have noticed certain individuals who did not belong,” Leliana said. “A Carta dwarf, for example, and a Dalish hunter.”

“I never got a good look at the Dalish elf," Ciri said. "He was in the woods beyond the tents and fled when he saw me looking in his direction. But the dwarf was brazen. I assumed she was a lookout for the Carta dwarf in the temple that I saw making an exchange with a Templar."

“That makes sense,” Leliana said. “Many Templars have found themselves without a reliable supply of lyrium from the Chantry, and have been forced to turn to the Carta for relief.”

“We have them locked in the dungeon at the moment," Chancellor Roderick said. "After the rift at the temple revealed the final moments before the explosion, it seems unlikely that either is connected, but we have yet to decide what to do with them."

“Will you go down and speak with them?” Leliana asked. “The guards will let you through if you wish to see the prisoners for yourself.”

“What is it you’re expecting, exactly?” Ciri asked.

Chancellor Roderick snorted. “Our spymaster here believes she can turn them to her own devices. A Carta thug and a Dalish savage? Ridiculous.”

“Better to let them go back to their own people,” Cassandra agreed.

Ciri met Leliana’s sharp eyes. “What should I promise them?”

“Vengeance, if they wish it," Leliana said. "Adventure, or a worthy cause. Find their weak spot and press."

Ciri wondered what weak spots Leliana saw in her, where she had been pressing. Unsettled, she nodded and turned to go.

“I believe you can find Messere Olgierd with the Trevelyans in the tavern,” Leliana called after her as she opened the door to leave. “Please remind him that I’d like another word when Lady Montilyet arrives.”

There was nothing overtly threatening in Leliana’s words, but Ciri still had to suppress a shiver as she left.

A wide-eyed Chantry priest directed her to the stairs leading to the dungeon. Down she went, the air growing colder as she descended. _What manner of church has a dungeon?_ She shook her head in disgust. _The parallels to the Church of the Eternal Fire grow stronger the more I look._

_Clang. Clang. Clang._

“Stop that, elf.”

“Make me, shem.”

_Clang. Clang. Clang._

“Can I _please_ have my book back?”

“ _Maker, no_ , you’ll start reading it aloud again!”

_Clang. Clang. Clang._

Ciri walked into the dungeon to see two bored-looking guards sitting at a small table playing a dice game and keeping a distracted eye on the cells. In one, the dwarf woman from the bridge slumped against the barred door and watched the dice rolls with moss-green eyes that didn't miss a trick. In another, an elven man lay on his back and kicked the hinge of the door with the heel of his foot.

Ciri coughed loudly, and the two guards scrambled to their feet.

“Who goes there – My Lady Hand!” one of them gasped, whipping his helmet off and bowing low. The other jumped to follow suit.

“Welcome to the dungeon, Lady Hand,” the second guard said. “Can we – how can we be of service to the Inquisition?”

Ciri hid an instinctive frown. _Was_ she part of the Inquisition? Did she even have a choice in the matter? They hadn’t asked her to join, but it seemed that they’d all assumed she was ready to take some predetermined place in their hierarchy.

“I’m here to speak to the prisoners,” she said. “Leliana wants me to determine what’s to be done with them.”

The guards nodded, and the first turned and barked at the dwarf and the elf. “Straighten up, you two! You’re in the presence of the Hand of the Maker herself.”

Skeptical brown eyes cut her way as the elf sat up slowly. He was young and square-jawed, with dark brown hair falling across his pale tattooed face. “She doesn’t look like much.”

The first guard purpled in outrage. “Why you miserable little knife –”

“Some privacy, please, guardsmen,” Ciri interrupted.

It took a bit of convincing, but finally, with much grumbling, the two guards left the dungeon and went up the stairs, assuring her that they’d be within earshot if she shouted. Once they’d left, Ciri turned to the two prisoners.

“So,” she said to the dwarf woman. “Did Belina ever convert to the Qun?”

The dwarf cackled. “Several times,” she said. “Loudly. Enthusiastically.”

“Ugh,” the elf groaned. “If I never hear the word ‘member’ again in my life it will be too soon. Or ‘throbbing.’” He glared at Ciri. “Why are you here, shem? It’s not to talk about smut with a Carta dwarf.”

“How much do you know of what happened at the Conclave?” Ciri asked.

“Big boom,” the dwarf said. “Something got this lot riled up fierce.”

The elf’s glare deepened. “My cousin was there. No one has told me anything of any survivors. If Ellana died, I need to know. The clan must be told that the First has fallen.”

“You weren’t told?” That seemed either neglectful or heartless. Either was possible, given her limited knowledge of Leliana.

“No, so if you have something to say, shem, then say it.”

“I’m the only survivor,” Ciri said. “The Divine lived briefly, but she passed on four days ago. Everyone else who was within the temple died.”

The elf turned away. “ _Fenhedis.”_ He scrubbed at his eyes roughly then stood, grabbing the bars of the cell door. “Did they catch the one who did it?”

“I’m sorry,” Ciri said, and she hated herself a little for seeing a weak spot to press. “We’re still hunting for the killer.”

“Then _let me out of here_ , shem!” the elf shouted. “I will hunt him down like the dog he is!”

“Ooh, me too,” the dwarf said. “For vengeance, and righteous smiting. And stuff.”

The elf’s furious glare turned from Ciri to the dwarf, who shrugged, unrepentant.

“What? I never liked Edric. Whoever said you had to love your family never met the Cadashes.”

Ciri looked at the elf, still glaring and gripping the bars of the cell. “You’d have an easier time hunting him down if you used the Inquisition’s resources.”

“Work with humans?” the elf scoffed. “Don’t make me laugh. You heard the guards. I’d be watching for a knife in my back if I stayed here.”

Ciri tried again. “This isn’t just your problem. Hundreds of people died in that explosion. If you help the Inquisition bring peace to Thedas and take down this murderer, wouldn’t that be good for the Dalish?”

“It never goes well for elves when we’re recognized by humans,” the elf said, shaking his head.

Ciri faltered. She’d run out of arguments.

“Would your cousin have helped?” the dwarf asked, and smiled innocently when that furious glare turned on her again. “I mean, she was spying on human stuff, so it obviously does matter to the Dalish.”

The elf swore in his language and let go of the bars. “ _Lasa adahl su nar masa._ Fine. I will do as Ellana would. But mark me, shem. I will have my vengeance.”

“I’m not standing in your way,” Ciri said. “And I’m sorry for not asking sooner – who are you?”

He scowled at her. “Mahanon, of Clan Lavellan.”

“Malika Cadash,” the dwarf said. “So, me too, right? ‘Cause if I stay, I don’t have to go back to running lyrium and pulling lookout duty for asshole cousins anymore.”

“It’s that easy?” Ciri asked.

“It’s that easy,” Malika said. “But I want my book back.”

“I’ll ask the guards,” Ciri promised.

She left them behind with her word that the guards would be back to free them. At the top of the stairs, the guards fidgeted, and they leaped to attention as she came into view.

“My Lady Hand!”

“Release them both,” she said. “They’ve decided to join the Inquisition.”

The first guard fingered the ring of keys at his belt hesitantly. “Even the elf, Lady Hand? You can’t trust these Dalish.”

Ciri swallowed her anger. “He lost his cousin in the explosion, guardsman. He wants justice, the same as we all do.”

“I suppose,” the guard said doubtfully.

“Malika Cadash – the dwarf – would like her book back,” Ciri said. “What was done with it?”

The guards looked at each other, and the second guard reluctantly pulled a bent and tattered red chapbook from his belt pouch. “I was going to give it to the Revered Mother to burn, honest. I wasn’t going to keep it.”

“Well, now you’re going to give it back,” Ciri said.

“Lady Hand – my Lady, do you know what’s in this filth?” the guard hissed, lowering his voice.

“Throbbing Qunari members, apparently,” Ciri said. “I don’t care. Return it.”

She left the guards behind and made her way out of the chantry, feeling unclean and disgusted with herself. She needed to see a friendly face, and she needed a drink, not necessarily in that order.

A cold wind hit her the moment she stepped through the doors, cutting straight through her thin shirt. Shivering, she ducked her head against the wind and walked faster. Outside the chantry, no one seemed to give her a second look. Without her distinctive armor or her two swords, she was just another nobody, come to join the Inquisition.

She took advantage of the anonymity to watch people as she walked. There, a woman in an orange hat and high-waisted trousers barked orders at runners. By a fire, a dwarf and a human argued theories about the Breach. Farther along the path she spotted Rona walking with a Vashoth, both intent on their conversation.

By the tavern door an elf and a Chantry sister spoke, and the words caught Ciri’s attention. She paused, hand on the door, to listen.

“Are we going to have new verses in the Chant of Light for the Hand of the Maker, telling what she did?”

The sister was reproving. “It’s far too soon to consider anything like that.”

Ciri moved on before either caught sight of her.

Inside the tavern, it was warm and packed with people. She craned her neck, going up on her toes to see if she could spot Olgierd’s red hair or the giant Owain. Neither of them was immediately visible. Nor were Evelyn and Maxwell. She gave it up as a lost cause and made her way to the bar.

The barmaid turned from serving another patron and gave a visible start at the sight of Ciri.

“Oh, Maker, you’re her!” she gasped. “You’re the Hand of the Maker.”

_Not this again._

“And you were sent to show us we were wrong to be afraid of the mages,” she continued. “Not that you’re scary. You’re practically normal, fighting with swords and everything. You’re here to show the world the Maker’s love, and I’m ready for that love. Well, I’m not ready for _that_ kind of love, that is, unless that’s what you want, but….”

Ciri had to smile at the outpouring of awkward words.

“I mean, I’m Flissa,” the barmaid finally said. “Can I get you a drink?”

* * *

Olgierd and the Trevelyans were not in the tavern as she’d been told by Leliana. The barmaid, Flissa, directed her back to the cabin by the apothecary. She left again, shivering in the cold mountain air, and walked up the short flight of steps to her destination.

Outside the cabin facing the Trevelyans', she found Solas. Or perhaps Solas found her. He did seem to be lingering with intent, watching the people passing by the tavern and waiting for someone, or for something to happen. He spotted her approaching and smiled. There was something lightly mocking in the expression, or so Ciri thought.

“The Hand of the Maker,” he said. “A blessed hero sent to save us all.”

She groaned. “Not you, too. And you seemed so sensible when we met.”

His smile deepened and lost its mocking edge. “Ah, you’ve been with Seeker Cassandra. That explains your distaste for such titles.”

Didn’t she have enough titles in her own world? The Lady of Worlds, the Lady of Time and Space? And what of the ones she’d turned her back on – Heiress to the throne of Cintra, and all the titles piled on the false Cirilla her natural father had married? No, another title, for a god she didn’t worship in a land that didn’t belong to her, was not to her liking. Not at all.

“Wouldn’t you be unhappy if all you were trying to do was the right thing?” Ciri asked. “And while you slept, people turned you into a religious figure worthy of awe, and possibly fear? It’s unnerving.”

Solas blinked at her, surprise in his lavender-gray eyes. “Yes, I imagine that would be quite unnerving.”

_At least one Thedosian understands._

“I sympathize with your protests, but such posturing is necessary.” He turned his back to her and straightened to his full height, crossing his arms behind him. “I’ve journeyed deep into the Fade in ancient ruins and battlefields to see the dreams of lost civilizations. I’ve watched as hosts of spirits clash to reenact the bloody past in ancient wars both famous and forgotten.” He turned back to Ciri, a curious light in his eyes. “Every great war has its heroes. I’m just curious what kind you’ll be.”

_Holding a crumbling keep against the might of the Wild Hunt with sixteen men and women. Summoning rain from fire in the Korath Desert and promptly losing control. Losing myself, and finding myself again. Denying the shackles of an empire to embrace my destiny instead. Venturing into the heart of the White Frost armed with sword and magic, and coming out victorious._

“I think that I’d like a chance to be the sort of hero who lives long enough to tell her own story,” Ciri said.

“That's wise," Solas said. "You should always beware of how stories get twisted in the retelling." He looked at her searchingly. “Is there truth to the rumor that you have an Elvhen ancestor?”

His tone of voice was hard to read, his face even more so. Ciri thought he was skeptical, possibly even offended, but everything was layered beneath the mask of a blandly humble apostate.

“Her name was Lara Dorren,” Ciri said. “My magic comes from her.”

Solas frowned. “A pity that she was so quick to discard her heritage in favor of a human name. What was she called before that?”

“Lara Dorren,” Ciri repeated, quite irritated. _First Leliana, now Solas._

“I suppose it’s too much to ask for her human descendants to remember,” Solas said. “Tell me, do you know if she had vallaslin? Blood writing?” At Ciri’s blank look, he sighed. “Tattoos?”

Ciri ignored Solas’ condescension and said, completely honestly, “No. She didn’t have any vallaslin.”

“And she was long-lived?”

“Yes, quite.”

Solas looked at her intently. “And what happened to her? You speak of her in the past tense.”

“She died,” Ciri said. “Humans killed her, and her human husband.”

“Ah,” Solas said softly, bitterly. “Of course.”

He seemed unsurprised, as if there was never any other outcome to be expected. But also, oddly, he seemed personally offended by her words. Like the injury had been done to him, or to his loved ones, not to a stranger he was only learning about just now.

Ciri gestured over her shoulder to the cabin door. “Could we speak later? I would like to hear about your journeys in the Fade, but I was looking for Olgierd –”

“Your friend is in there, along with some nobles – the Trevelyan siblings, I believe,” Solas said. “And I would be happy to share my adventures with you some other time.”

With a murmured goodbye, Ciri left Solas and his irritating assumptions behind and entered the cabin. Olgierd, Owain, Evelyn, and Maxwell all looked up at her and seemed to sag in relief as one.

“Ciri,” Olgierd greeted her. “This is becoming a habit.”

“I hope not,” she said.

Evelyn stood, slipping her cloak from her shoulders to wrap around Ciri. "Maker, you walked all the way here from the chantry dressed like that? You must be freezing."

“I didn’t think to go back for warmer clothes after Leliana’s task,” Ciri said. She sat on the bed beside Olgierd.

“Something’s eating at you,” Maxwell said. He passed her a bottle of something that smelled rich and mildly fruity, with strong alcoholic vapors. “Come on, share with your friends.”

She took a swig and the taste of blackberry brandy flooded her mouth, suffusing her with warmth as she swallowed. “I just manipulated a grieving man into joining the Inquisition for Leliana’s benefit,” she said, passing the bottle back. “I barely have any idea what the Inquisition is.”

“Feeling dirty?” Maxwell said. “That’s the ugly side of politics.”

“That wasn’t political. That was cold. And Leliana easily could have done it herself.”

“I suspect she was testing you,” Maxwell said. “She wanted to see if you’d do as she asked, as well as what your decision would be.”

“And I did exactly as she hoped I would,” Ciri said in disgust. She looked to Olgierd. “She wants ‘another word’ when the ambassador arrives. You’ve already crossed paths with her?”

“The Sister believes I’m possessing the corpse of a dying man,” Olgierd said. “As theories go, it takes the prize for creativity, but I’ve no desire to find her ‘freeing’ my spirit from its host with a helpful blade or ritual.”

Ciri had forgotten her immense irritation with Maxwell. Now abruptly reminded, she turned to him with a warning look. “Maxwell….”

Maxwell raised his free hand defensively. “That rumor wasn’t one of mine. I swear it.”

“Perhaps you might enlighten us as to the point of your rumors,” Olgierd said. “For there was a point, certainly.” Skepticism dripped heavily from his voice.

“Yes, there was a point!" Maxwell retorted. He pulled a stack of folded papers from his belt pouch and held them out, one at a time. "Lord Enyon Truscott. He fancied the rumor of Ciri's ancient elven heritage and wrote to Father and the dean of the History Department at Starkhaven University demanding an increase in classes for elven studies.

“Lady Eseld Gloyne held trade relations with Amaranthine nobles, and she wrote us a letter of introduction based solely on her hope that we'd introduce Lady Cirilla to King Alistair. Lord Hedrek Gwinnel was always a trading rival. He abandoned a ripe contract with Celene's favorite courtier over the Valmont bastard rumor to back Gaspard. Liam can negotiate that one.

“Lord Angove had a mage lover, and it’s rumored they have a child. This –” He held up a folded document. “This pledges the political and monetary support of the Angove family for the next generation. Lady Kellow provided us inroads with the Dwarven Merchants’ Guild in Kirkwall. Lord Kevern wished to hire Lord Olgierd’s services as a bard, but he was always a bit more cutthroat than the rest. He also invited us in on a contract with a Nevarran silk farm.”

Ciri leaned back at the torrent of words. That _was_ impressive, despite her reluctance to find it so. “And you couldn’t have done it without making a spectacle of me?”

“I could have,” Maxwell admitted. “But that made it easier.”

“Max!” Evelyn cried in exasperation.

“Marcher nobles like their plots and their complications,” Maxwell said. “Give them a story, spin them a tale, and they’re much happier than if you simply bargain with them directly. We had you, and I made you a desirable commodity.”

“You owe me, Maxwell,” Ciri said.

Maxwell considered this and nodded. "Fair enough. You were extremely helpful and very patient. What can I do for you?"

“Get them to stop calling me the Hand of the Maker!”

Owain stirred from his corner of the cabin. For such a tall man, he could be remarkably quiet – much like Evelyn and her catlike feet. “Unfortunately, I don’t think it’s possible to put that back in the bottle without running around calling you a heretic or a blasphemer. And there’s a short leap from that to a show trial and a public execution.”

“Holy fire,” Olgierd said sardonically. “Enlighten, burn, and cleanse.”

Ciri groaned, dropping her head in her hands. “She was dying. She was likely not lucid. Who would take her seriously?”

“Everyone,” Owain said. “She was the Divine.”

“No one could reasonably expect you to stay,” Evelyn said. “At least, we don’t. It’s not your world. This isn’t your problem.”

“And yet, that’s what it’s become,” Ciri said, holding up her marked hand. “This makes it my problem. And look at the sky – I can’t just walk away knowing I can help. Are you planning to stay?”

The siblings all hesitated. Owain answered first. “Between the untrained commoners joining up and the Templars still on lyrium, I don’t have much faith in the state of their forces. I’m staying with Rona and Raúl to train the recruits and do what I can to improve things. With my background, I expect I’ll be promoted fairly quickly.”

“Someone needs to organize the mages, and there’s no one left who’s more senior than I am," Evelyn said. "I have enough clout as a noble with a former Templar brother to keep the Inquisition's Templars from running roughshod over me. I should be able to extend that protection to the other mages who stayed."

“I’d like to stay and lend my skills to the ambassador when she arrives,” Maxwell said. “It might be interesting work, manipulating nobles on such a grand scale.”

Ciri nodded. “Then I’ll stay as well. My contract is to see you all back from the Conclave, alive and well. If you stay, then I must too.”

“So will I, then,” Olgierd said, “though I’d like to know more of this Inquisition.”

“I can’t tell you much about this one,” Maxwell said. “But the first Inquisition was formed one hundred years before the first named Age. It lasted for two generations, and its ranks were filled with Andrastian militants and fanatics determined to purge Thedas of magic and heresy wherever they found it.”

“Dark times,” Owain said. “Remnants of the First Blight still scoured the lands, new kingdoms were breaking off from Tevinter constantly, and a unified Orlais wouldn’t be seen until Inquisitor Ameridan’s time. After the Inquisition and the new Chantry signed the Nevarran Accords, the Inquisition became two different orders, the Templars and the Seekers of Truth.”

“It’s an unpleasant chapter of history to revisit,” Evelyn said. “Maker knows what Divine Justinia was thinking.”

Ciri shook her head. “Marvelous.”

_Holy fire…_

“Forgive a foreigner his ignorance,” Olgierd said, “but what exactly is a Blight?”

Owain swiped Maxwell’s bottle and passed it to Olgierd. “How strong is your stomach?”

* * *

Ciri stepped from the rustic cabin into the tastefully decorated hallway of the Trevelyan estate, Maxwell’s papers in hand. She lingered outside the withdrawing room for a moment, listening. The voices within belonged only to the elder Trevelyans and Triss, not to Margarita or – gods forbid – Philippa.

Inside, Triss and Lady Trevelyan were drinking something dark from fine china cups. They, along with Lord Trevelyan, were going over a list on a sheet of parchment and making notes and revisions.

“Lady Ciri?” Lord Trevelyan said, standing from his chair. “What brings you back to Ostwick ahead of schedule?”

Ciri realized with a start that they wouldn’t have heard the news yet, not even if a messenger rode morning to night on horseback to reach Ostwick.

“Everyone is fine,” she said. “But the Temple of Sacred Ashes exploded.”

Lady Trevelyan froze.

“Everyone is _fine_ ,” she said again. “I just left Owain, Evelyn, and Maxwell in their cabin, and they don’t have a scratch on them.”

“They don’t,” Triss said. “But others do?”

“I survived it, as did the Divine,” Ciri said. “Though she died not long after. But everyone else within the Temple died.”

Lady Trevelyan set her cup down in its saucer with a sharp _clink_. “How.”

"We don't know," Ciri said. "The explosion was magical in nature. It tore open a hole in the Fade and opened smaller rifts in the valley around Haven. I've no idea how far the effect spread."

“And the dead?” Lord Trevelyan asked.

“I’m the wrong one to ask,” Ciri said. “Perhaps two hundred people, maybe more. Nobles, senior mages, Templars, important Chantry officials, half a Vashoth mercenary group, even a Dalish elf and a Carta dwarf. And that’s not counting the servants who must have been there.”

Lady Trevelyan went white. “And the monster who did this?”

“Dead, or at large,” Ciri said. “We don’t know.”

“Bring my children home,” she demanded.

Ciri shook her head. “They want to stay. Owain is helping to train the Inquisition’s recruits –”

“ _The Inquisition_?” Lord Trevelyan exclaimed. “What madness is this?”

“The Divine’s madness, apparently,” Ciri said. “Her last act before dying.”

“Ciri, what happened?” Triss asked urgently. “How did you survive?”

“I expect my magic played a part,” she said. “But there’s also this.” She held out her hand for Triss to examine.

Triss took Ciri’s hand in hers and probed the area around the mark with careful fingers. “What does this feel like?”

“Pressure, no pain,” Ciri said. “The mark itself tingles a bit. It used to hurt immensely before I used it to slow the Breach – the hole in the Fade.”

“And what does the magic feel like?”

“Odd,” Ciri said slowly. “And familiar, almost. Like my magic, but not.”

Triss nodded. “Anything else?”

“Yes,” Ciri said. “When I teleport, my hand feels heavy, as if it’s being pinned in place by this world. Something in this magic wants to stay still.”

“You should speak with Enchanter Honora before you return to Haven,” Lord Trevelyan said. “As for the familiarity of the magic, Grandmother Iori theorized –”

“That the ancient elves of Thedas were a branch of the Aen Undod?” Ciri interrupted. “Evelyn mentioned that. Perhaps one of their descendants caused the explosion.”

“That’s not something you should spread around,” Lord Trevelyan cautioned her. “Humans are quick to blame elves for their misfortune. If word should get out that your suspect is an elf, I dread to think what might happen.”

Lady Trevelyan picked up her cup with hands that trembled slightly. “You cannot convince them to come home?”

“They seem adamant,” Ciri said.

“Then I insist you stay and make sure they survive their folly,” she said. “An Inquisition! Honestly.”

Ciri handed Lord Trevelyan Maxwell’s stack of documents and missives. “Here, this is everything Maxwell accomplished on the way to the Conclave. I’m not sure what needs to be done, particularly since most of the people involved died in the explosion.”

He flipped through the pages, reading swiftly. “Oh, brilliant work, son. Yes, I’ll put Liam and Alondra on this at once.”

“Just leave me out of the rest of it,” Ciri said. “Triss?”

“Yes?”

“How are the mages doing?”

“You know I started them off on Witcher signs,” Triss said. “Most of them picked up Aard fairly easily. There was one boy, one of the older apprentices, who couldn’t get it until I switched him to Igni. But all of them made progress.”

“What’s next?” Ciri asked.

“I need to reconnect the crystal on this side and go through,” Triss said. “Talk to Yenna and Keira, make plans with Margarita. If the mages and apprentices keep learning at this rate, though, then I think we’ll move them to Casteldaccia in the next two or three weeks. After that, I’ll join you at Haven.”

“You’ll be busy,” Ciri said. She was surprised Triss wanted to join her, given her dedication to helping the mages.

“So will you, it sounds like.” Triss gave her hand a concerned look. “Come on. Let’s go talk to Enchanter Honora about that. You can see how the mages are doing, too.”

“I’m right behind you,” Ciri said.

They made their goodbyes to Lord and Lady Trevelyan and left the withdrawing room.

“You used your necklace,” Triss said quietly as they walked down the hall.

“I did what?” Ciri reached for her agate pendant, startled.

Triss’ face creased with concern. “You don’t remember?”

“No, nothing.” She hesitated, then confessed, “My memories of what happened are missing. I’m told I went through the Fade. Perhaps I used it there.”

“It’s too bad these Thedosians don’t practice oneiromancy,” Triss said. “We could recover your memories without too much trouble if they did.”

“I expect the Fade would pose a problem,” Ciri said. “Demons would interfere in the dreaming.”

“Then we’ll find another way.”

“Mm.” They walked down the stairs in silence. A thought struck Ciri, and she said suddenly, “I forgot to mention the most ridiculous part.”

“Hmm?”

“These religious fanatics think I’m holy!”


	8. Introductions and Honest Lies

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ciri meets Cullen and Josephine. Olgierd and Ciri both learn new things about each other. The wheels on the Inquisition bus finally start rolling.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> beta-read by brightspot149 -- thank you!
> 
> The minor background romance of Cullen/Evelyn starts in this chapter, just before Ciri meets Cullen.

She’d missed the Divine’s funeral while she slept. Olgierd, as much an outsider as she was, told her it had been as grand as a small military camp could manage on short notice, full of chanting and incense and weeping crowds. Now her ashes were on their way to Val Royeaux to be interred in the Grand Cathedral with her predecessors.

The ambassador, Lady Josephine Montilyet, arrived two days after Ciri woke. She barely caught a glimpse of the woman before she disappeared into the chantry. She was left only with the impression of a full blue skirt and cloth-of-gold legs, all wrapped in a subtle, delicate perfume.

Ciri had thought that once the ambassador arrived, things would begin happening, but it turned out that being a part of the Inquisition in its early days required a lot of patience – and a lot of waiting. Ciri occupied herself with badgering the surly quartermaster to approve an expansion to the rickety horse enclosure, long, circuitous walks about the village, and watching Owain, Rona, and Raúl beat men and women into shape on the training field.

She had a great deal of time to ponder what Enchanter Honora had to say about the mark on her hand. “ _Like the Fade, but not. Akin to Force magic more than Spirit magic.”_ In the end, she’d told Ciri to seek out someone more knowledgeable about the Fade’s workings – she was a healer, not a scholar. Speaking to Solas was on her list of things to do, but she found herself putting it off. His condescension and preconceived notions had irked her the last time they spoke.

Varric, the dwarf from the trek out to the Breach, flagged her down on one of her long walks.

“Stop a moment, will you?” he said, gesturing to the log bench by his fire. “I’m getting dizzy watching you pass me every fifteen minutes.”

Ciri smiled and took the offered seat.

“So, now that all the higher-ups are busy,” Varric said, “are you holding up all right? I mean, you didn’t look too happy back in the valley when you heard your new title.”

“If I tell you how I really feel, I’ll start shouting,” Ciri said. “None of this – _none of it_ – should have happened.”

“You can say that again,” Varric agreed. “Buck up, Sparrow. We’ve been staring at that Breach for days watching demons and Maker knows what fall out of it. Believing the Maker sent you? It’s good for morale.”

“So I’m a figurehead?” Ciri asked. “A mascot?”

“A beacon,” Varric said. “Something these people can hold onto in dark times.” He shook his head. “I still can’t believe anyone was in there and lived.”

“If it’s so bad, why stay?” Ciri asked.

Varric shrugged. “I like to think I’m as selfish and irresponsible as the next guy, but this? Hundreds of people died up there. I was almost one of them. And now there’s a hole in the sky. Even I can’t walk away and leave that to sort itself out.”

“I know the feeling,” Ciri said. “Everything in me is screaming to leave. But they need help, and I can’t leave knowing that I could have done something to fix this.”

“You might want to consider listening to that inner scream of yours,” Varric said. “Heroes are everywhere. But the hole in the sky – that’s beyond heroes. We’re going to need a miracle.”

Unsettled, Ciri stood. “I’ll see you later, Varric.”

“Good talking to you, Sparrow.”

Ciri didn’t believe in miracles. An odd thing, maybe, for someone who believed in destiny, who had chased it, railed against it, and then finally embraced it with open arms. But destiny was hard work, blood and tears and sleepless nights. Miracles were divine intervention from gods that rarely showed an interest in their supplicants.

No, if she were to succeed here in Thedas, it would be more blood and sleepless nights. There was no miracle coming for any of them.

She made her way down to the training yard and stood in the shadow of the gate, watching trained soldiers and new recruits drill together. In a far corner of the yard, Rona led a group of hooded scouts through underhand strikes with a dagger. By the tents, Raúl took green men and women through the steps of blocking with a shield, then following through with a strike from a sword.

Over by the training dummies, Owain spoke to Cassandra. He leaned in closely, head tilted down to keep his words private. His eyes often flickered across the way to a blond, tired-looking Templar in a furred tabard. Cassandra’s gaze followed his, and she shook her head. Owain’s shoulders slumped, and he whispered something that made Cassandra grimace. Finally getting a reluctant nod from her, he turned to walk away.

Evelyn stood in his path, holding out a small bottle. He accepted it from her with a smile and drank it down right there under her watchful eye. As Ciri looked on, Evelyn straightened her shoulders and marched across the field to the Templar in the furred tabard.

He looked at her in bemusement, then mild irritation as she attempted to give him a similar bottle. Gently, then more firmly, he turned her down, finally simply walking away. Evelyn clutched the bottle in a white-knuckled fist, and she stalked back to the healing tent. Owain intercepted her, taking the bottle with a few reassuring words before letting her go.

Ciri stepped out of the shadow of the gate and joined Owain on the field.

“What was that about?”

“That was our esteemed commander pretending he has everything under control,” Owain said dryly.

Ciri looked again. The tired-looking Templar with the distinctive tabard was Commander Cullen?

“What do you mean?” Ciri asked.

Owain cast a quick look about and lowered his voice. “Don’t go spreading this about, but Rutherford quit taking lyrium less than a month ago. You can see it in his complexion, and the way his hands shake sometimes. I don’t doubt you’ll notice it when you talk – he’s in for months of mood swings, poor sleep, a short temper, and worse headaches than I have.”

“And that’s the man commanding the army?”

“Cassandra recruited him,” Owain said. “I don’t think Seekers really understand how bad lyrium addiction can be.”

Ciri rubbed her forehead wearily. “That’s just fantastic. I suppose you were trying to convince the Seeker of a plan for when this inevitably goes terribly wrong?”

“I told her she needs to reshuffle the upper ranks,” Owain said. “Put people not withdrawing from lyrium or actively taking the stuff directly under Rutherford’s command so they can take over if he needs to step down. She didn’t want to hear it, but she saw reason in the end.”

“Give me Evelyn’s potion,” Ciri said, holding out her hand. “I think it’s time I met Commander Cullen.”

Owain gave it to her, but held on to her hand, meeting her eyes solemnly. “Ciri. Rutherford’s from Kirkwall. He’s not like me. Be careful around him. He already knows you’re a mage. If he thinks you’re a danger, he won’t hesitate to act.”

“I’ll be careful,” Ciri promised. Owain squeezed her hand and let her go with a nod.

She found Cullen barking orders at the drilling recruits, an aide-de-camp hovering at his side.

“Commander Cullen?” Ciri said as she approached. “I’m –”

“Lady Ciri,” Cullen said. “The Hand of the Maker.” Ciri couldn’t tell if he was naturally stern, or if it was tiredness making him so.

“Just ‘Ciri’ will do,” Ciri said. “How are the men doing?”

“Well enough, given the state of things.” He sighed heavily. “We lost many soldiers in the valley, and I fear many more will be lost before this is through. And for every Templar, we have five raw recruits – eager, but entirely unskilled.”

“Skill is learned,” Ciri said. “Would you prefer if they never joined at all?”

“Maker, no, that’s not what I meant,” Cullen said. “I just fear for the worst. It comes with the territory of years serving in Kirkwall.”

“You were in Kirkwall?” Ciri asked, as if Owain hadn’t just told her exactly that.

Cullen nodded and began to walk. Ciri fell into step beside him.

“I served as Knight-Captain at the Circle Tower there during the mage uprising – I saw firsthand the devastation it caused. Cassandra sought a solution. When she offered me a place in the Inquisition, I left the Templars to join the cause. Now it seems we face something far worse.”

He turned to accept a letter from a runner, and Ciri took a moment to think of a response. The devastation of the mage uprising? A knight-captain –second only to the knight-commander? He left the Templars? This was perhaps too much to take on all at once.

“So you have faith in the Inquisition,” she said instead.

“I do,” Cullen said firmly. “The Chantry lost control of both Templars and mages. Now they argue over you and jockey for influence while the Breach remains. The Inquisition could act when the Chantry cannot. Our followers would be part of that. There’s so much we could – No. Pardon me. I’m afraid I let my enthusiasm carry me away.”

She smiled a little at his sudden bashfulness. “You’ve given this a lot of thought.”

The bashfulness faded swiftly, replaced by something bleak and hard. “I know what happens when order is lost, and action comes too late.”

Ciri could see another runner approaching in the distance, so as Cullen made noise about having more work to do, she cut him off and held out Evelyn’s potion.

“No, thank you,” Cullen said before Ciri could get a word out.

“Owain and the other former Markham Templars take it for their headaches,” Ciri said.

Cullen’s body language closed up, stiff and unwelcoming. “I’m fine, Lady Hand. I can do my duty.”

“Take the potion,” Ciri insisted. “It won’t bite you.”

“No, thank you,” he said again, more coldly this time. “Now if you’ll excuse me, there’s still work to be done.”

Ciri frowned at his retreating back, feeling a childish urge to make a face at him. She could see why Owain was concerned, but it didn’t seem quite as dire as he’d made it out to be. Still, she’d keep a close eye out.

She flagged down another runner. “Please put this in Commander Cullen’s quarters,” she told the young woman. “Somewhere he’ll see it.”

“At once, milady!” the runner said with a sharp salute.

There. That was something accomplished, at least. Having exhausted all interest in the training field, and needing an outside perspective, she went in search of Olgierd.

He wasn’t at the rickety horse enclosure – though she took some time to lavish affection on Zephyr – nor was he in the tavern or the cabin. She was about to try the chantry, unlikely as that seemed, when Maxwell intercepted her with a serious look on his face.

“You’re looking for Lord Olgierd,” he said.

Her heart dropped. “Where is he?”

“Sister Leliana has him – _wait,_ stop, it’s not what you think.”

“ _Damn it_ , Maxwell!” Ciri cried. “Can you not just tell me things straight out?”

He stepped closer to her, saying in a hushed voice, “I did you a favor. I can’t take away this ‘Hand of the Maker’ business, but I can get them to back off their theory on Lord Olgierd.”

She leaned back a little to look him in the eyes. He seemed sincere. “How?”

“I mentioned his bout with Ser Raúl," Maxwell said. "A spirit – or a demon – will defend itself if it's attacked by magic. Templar abilities count. Now he’s just a strange, unexplainable human.”

“And the plan from there?” Ciri asked.

“I’m to collect you and bring you back to the spymaster and the ambassador,” Maxwell said. “Lady Montilyet was not pleased with Sister Leliana’s plans to just let rumor run wild. She has another idea.”

Anything had to be better than that plan. Ciri inclined her head at him and followed him back to the chantry.

* * *

When Sister Leliana had come for him, with her sharp eyes and the knife hidden behind her polite smile, Olgierd thought that he was about to find himself fighting his way out of Haven. Instead, she took him to a well-lit office in the chantry where a woman in a cloth-of-gold blouse and a jeweled livery collar sat behind a desk shuffling papers.

“Your newest project, Josephine,” Leliana said.

Josephine looked up at Olgierd, studying him with long-lashed hazel eyes. He studied her back curiously. She was quite young to be an ambassador, and rather beautiful – warm brown skin, shiny black hair pulled back into a braided bun, and a strong nose. He thought he smelled something on the air, a hint of blackcurrant blossoms and cardamom underlaid by vanilla.

“Half of my project,” Josephine corrected. She had the same soft accent that Raúl and Alondra spoke with. “Where is Lady Cirilla?”

“I’ve sent Maxwell Trevelyan to find her,” Leliana said. “They should be here shortly.”

“I always tell you, Leliana, you make things too complicated,” Josephine scolded.

Leliana affected a sullen look, but Olgierd thought he caught a glimpse of amusement in her eyes. “He _could_ have been a spirit, you know. And we’re still going through with the rumors.”

“But now there will be something behind them when people go digging,” Josephine said. She shook her head and smiled at Olgierd. “Messere Olgierd. You are quite the mystery.”

“Lady Josephine,” Olgierd said. “Would you believe me if I claimed to be a minstrel?”

Her laughter was light and brought an answering smile to his lips. “I’m afraid that’s just too outlandish a tale to swallow, Messere Olgierd. Perhaps you might try another.”

“I leave him in your hands, Josie,” Leliana said. “Do come up with something interesting.”

For a woman dressed in chainmail, she was unusually quiet in motion. Barely a clink gave her away as she left. Olgierd took a seat across from Josephine’s desk, trying not to fall into his usual louche sprawl.

“Lady Ambassador,” he said. “I am a man of many talents, but a mind reader, I’m not. What is it you’ve called me here for?”

“You represent an interesting problem,” Josephine said. “Fortunately for you, I adore solving problems.” She straightened the papers on her desk and folded her hands across them. “If you were a nobody we could afford to ignore you. Given your clear attachment to the Hand of the Maker –”

“Ciri,” Olgierd interrupted.

“You make my point for me,” Josephine said. “You are highly visible for that friendship, Messere Olgierd. People will go looking for answers as to who you are, and we need to have those answers ready.”

“I take it you have ideas beyond threats and rumors?” Olgierd asked.

“If we cannot find your past in truth, then we shall simply make one.” She picked up a quill, freshly sharpened, and dipped it in a pot of ink. “To start with – shall we say your father was Nevarran, and your mother Ferelden? Do you have a preference for names? Nestor, perhaps, or Rodomonte?”

“Bohumil,” Olgierd said. “And Kristina.” He’d not disavow his family here in this new world.

Josephine hummed to herself. “Bohumil is a very strange name, but if you insist….”

“I do,” Olgierd said. “I’ve no others.”

He had a terrible feeling of foreboding as to where this line of questioning was going to go. The ambassador proved him right with her next words.

“Siblings? A spouse?” Josephine asked as the door opened behind him.

Ciri dropped into the chair beside him as grief took his heart in its grasp and squeezed.

_My greatest shame. And my greatest loss._

“A brother,” he said finally. “Vlodimir. Younger than I, wilder. He loved horses, dancing, women, battle. He was never content in the quiet moments.”

Josephine’s writing slowed. “And a spouse?” she ventured.

“Iris,” he breathed. “She –”

The grip on his heart tightened, and he rubbed his chest with the palm of his hand, hating the feel of the scars across it. At his side, Ciri reached out and laid a gentle hand on his arm.

“She lived for the quiet moments,” he said roughly. “She was an artist, a gem of a woman. Some women were wittier, or more worldly, but none matched Iris for kindness or creativity.”

“I’m sorry,” Josephine said, setting the quill aside. “How long ago did she pass?”

He didn’t know. _He didn’t know_ , because he’d left her in a burned and crumbling manor with only demons for company, and hadn’t thought to mourn her passing until three years ago, finally freed from his wish to live like there was no tomorrow.

“She’s been gone too long,” Olgierd said. “And yet some days I feel as though I saw her only yesterday.”

“We can continue this another time if this is too difficult,” Josephine offered.

Olgierd shook his head. “Nay. Best to get it over with while the wound’s bleeding.” He didn’t want to staunch it only to rip it open again.

Josephine took up her quill, resuming her professional mien. “You are a widower, then, and you spoke of your brother in the past tense. How did they pass?”

“Vlod died bravely in battle – a heroic death,” Olgierd said. He’d told that lie so often that it rolled naturally off the tongue.

Josephine nodded to herself and made a note. “As the son of a Ferelden woman, it makes sense for Vlodimir to have faced the Blight.”

 _His head popped like a grape beneath an overturned table whilst we were raiding a village in Velen_ , Olgierd didn’t say, _A sacrifice to my greed_. “Iris passed of a wasting illness, or so I was told. I was away on business.” _Raiding._

“And your parents?” Josephine asked.

“Dead, both of them,” Olgierd said. “And thus I’m the last of the von Everec line...such as it is.”

Josephine jotted down a few more notes. “Again, I apologize for stirring up any unpleasantness, Messere Olgierd. I will call in the appropriate favors. People in Ferelden and Nevarra will soon vouch for your family’s existence. There’s a Ferelden mercenary company, the Wild Ones, who specialize in mounted combat. The captain of the Valo-Kas mercenary group can get us in touch with them, have them say you were a member – yes?”

“Nothing,” Olgierd said, chuckling a little at the absurdity. The Wild Ones, here. Could he not be free of his ghosts even in a new world? “Forgive me, my lady. I’ve no wish to ride with the Wild Ones, even on paper. Anything else?”

“No, that's all for now," Josephine said. Her hazel eyes held sympathy he didn't feel he deserved. "Thank you for speaking with me, messere. You may leave if you like. I need to speak to Lady Ciri about her background."

“Olgierd can stay,” Ciri said. Her hand, still on his arm, squeezed and let go. “You can stay.”

“If you like,” he said. As Josephine turned her attention to Ciri, his posture loosened, and he slid into his usual careless, space-eating sprawl.

“Lady Ciri, you must pick a rumor and make it your own,” Josephine said. “Leliana has already told me of your Elvhen ancestor, the woman you say was named Lara Dorren.”

 _She was named what?_ Not moving from his comfortable slouch, Olgierd turned his head slowly and looked at Ciri. “That’s never Geralt’s ancestor,” he said. _That is a very specific name, mother to a very specific bloodline._

“I’m adopted,” Ciri said, eyes defiant.

He'd heard of Witchers invoking the Law of Surprise and getting a child in return. Had the White Wolf somehow found himself as father to the heir to Cintra's throne? But then, hadn't he heard something years ago, about Emperor Emhyr marrying Cirilla of Cintra?

A conversation for another time, perhaps, when Lady Josephine wasn’t listening in.

“Tell me of your adoptive parents,” Josephine prompted her.

Olgierd watched as a curious expression crossed Ciri’s face. Not quite thoughtfulness, it was something slightly shrewder. She was clearly weighing her words carefully.

“Geralt, my father, is a knight,” she said, “though he used to be a mercenary. My mother Yennefer is a mage.”

“And do they have a surname?” Josephine asked.

Ciri thought a bit, then said, “Morhen, I suppose. It will serve as well as any other.”

“Do you have a preference for a country of origin?” Josephine continued. “It will be easier to place them in the Free Marches, given your relationship with the Trevelyan family.”

“No, I’ve no preference,” Ciri said.

“And your natural family?”

“Off limits.”

Josephine nodded. “I understand. I don’t believe I need anything further from you, Lady Ciri, Messere Olgierd. We’ll get started on this at once. Thank you both for your time.”

Thus dismissed, Olgierd and Ciri left the ambassador’s office and exited the Chantry as quickly as they could without looking as if they were fleeing.

Olgierd intended to ask about Ciri’s famous ancestor right away, but the look in her eyes – half dread, half pleading – made him change tack. “The ambassador seems like a capable woman,” he said instead. “Young, for such an important office.”

“She’s older than I am,” Ciri countered. She looked at him curiously. “How old are you? Do you count the years you were immortal?”

“I must, for if I didn’t, then I learned nothing from my folly,” Olgierd said. “I’m seventy-one as of last January.”

Ciri’s eyes widened. “That’s – older than I expected, honestly. I knew you were older than you looked, but seventy-one is almost fifteen years older than Triss, and only twenty years or so younger than Geralt.”

The weight of those years pressed on him most days, for all that his face and his body didn’t show it. “I look hale enough for an old man,” he said. “If you discount the scars.”

“Physically, you can’t be more than thirty-eight, forty at the oldest. There’s enough life left ahead of you to start over,” Ciri said. “To find love again.”

Olgierd's heart gave a pang at the thought, and he shook his head. "You've no understanding of the mess I made of things with Iris. Even if it was a curse, I'd fear to cause the same heartbreak to another undeserving woman." And he still had yet to let go of her memory. "What of you? Any chance of love for the young Witcher?"

“Not here,” Ciri said. “Not in a world I’ll leave behind once I’ve finished solving their problem. Besides, I’ve no real experience in love. The last time I had a relationship – the only time, really – it ended poorly.”

“And by poorly, do you mean slammed doors and thrown vases, or that there are entire cities you must avoid?” Olgierd asked, attempting to ease the growing darkness in her eyes. It didn’t work.

“She was killed, along with all our friends,” Ciri said. “By a mercenary working for Emperor Emhyr.”

Her hand crept up to the scar on her face. She'd done that before, touched that scar when talking about understanding his regrets.

“Ciri,” he said. “About Emperor Emhyr….”

She tensed. “What about him?”

“There was an announcement of marriage, years ago,” Olgierd began. Ciri cut him off.

“You want to know about his marriage to Cirilla of Cintra,” she said, voice flat and hard. “I wish them all the best, a long and joyous marriage. May she prosper in wedded bliss to the monster who razed half the North and caused the death of Queen Calanthe. I hope for her sake he doesn’t make her call him ‘father’ in bed.”

She turned on her heel and stalked off. Olgierd stared after her, speechless. _Her own father? It’s no wonder she faked her death._

His young friend grew more interesting the more he learned of her. A shame she’d closed herself off from love, though. She was too young to give up on such things. Not like him.

* * *

Ciri sighed to herself. More waiting, more patience. More poking around Haven looking for something useful to do. She’d met the cranky alchemist who’d provided her with potions while she was unconscious the first time and gone looking for his missing notes. She introduced herself to the smith and answered his questions about her arms and armor as best she could. She even ventured into the woods to find a logging site for the surly quartermaster.

She hadn’t spoken to Olgierd since her outburst in front of the chantry the day before. That had been embarrassing, frustrating. She should have realized that he’d put the pieces together quickly. He was a learned man, a noble and an occultist. Lara Dorren’s name would be familiar to him, as would the politics of royal marriages. She’d thought she had better control of her emotions than that, but the past still clawed at her in unexpected moments.

Ciri still remembered hearing about Emhyr’s marriage to the false Cirilla of Cintra while she was running with the Rats. How jealousy had burned in her then! Jealousy that turned later, much later, to a sick, cold horror when she learned the truth of her relationship to the ruthless emperor of Nilfgaard.

 _From Auberon and Avallac’h, to Vilgefortz and the Lodge, to my natural father, it seems no one can see past my womb,_ Ciri thought bitterly, _And the ones who can, can’t see past my blood_. At least she had Geralt and Yennefer. They were unshakable pillars in a life brimming with uncertainty and danger.

Still, this world, frustrating as it was, wasn’t so bad once she got past the madness of being a holy icon. The Trevelyans were good people, and Cassandra, for all her religiosity, seemed righteous and fair-minded. Varric was clever, and Solas, though condescending, was knowledgeable, even wise.

She’d run across the Vashoth from the tavern once. Herah had lost her ease, pulling herself into a stern and professional demeanor and socializing almost exclusively with the members of her mercenary company. The dwarf, Malika, grinned and waved whenever they crossed paths. She saw Mahanon twice. He glared both times.

Ciri itched for action. She wanted to ride out and do something, track down the culprit behind the Breach, learn more about its creation, discover the secrets behind the magic in her palm. Being trapped here in Haven, day in and day out, was starting to take its toll.

She threw her hands up in exasperation, startling a nearby elf laden with a load of laundry.

“Maker!”

“Sorry,” Ciri muttered. She ducked her head and strode down the path, determined to have her way with the straw dummies on the training field.

A scout intercepted her at the gate. “Message for you, Lady Hand,” she said.

“Yes?” Ciri said, mood lifting. _Something new, finally._

“The Seeker wants to see you in the chantry,” the scout said. “I don’t have any more information.”

Ciri thanked the scout and hurried back up the path to the chantry. _Perhaps they have a lead on the person who created the Breach. Perhaps they need me to go out and fight._

Cassandra wasn’t the only one waiting in the room at the back of the chantry. Sister Leliana was there, as were Josephine and Commander Cullen. All four of them looked up as she entered. Josephine and Cassandra greeted her with smiles. Cullen nodded tersely. Sister Leliana just watched.

“It’s good you’ve arrived,” Leliana said. “We’ve had word from Val Royeaux, and it’s...not ideal.”

“It is as Chancellor Roderick predicted,” Cassandra said. “These grand clerics deny the truth of the Divine’s words as they fight over the Sunburst Throne.”

“The Divine’s pronouncement of a ‘Hand of the Maker’ is a bit more than controversial,” Josephine said. “Thanks to the Inquisition being founded by Divine Justinia, we still have Chantry support, but a significant number of grand clerics are calling her words – and you yourself – blasphemous. We, in turn, are heretics for harboring you.”

“They’re frightened and angry,” Ciri said. “Put a pitchfork in their hands and you have an ideal recipe for a mob.”

Leliana shook her head, looking somewhat amused. “Even if we tried to stop that view from spreading –”

“Which we have not,” Cassandra said, ever honest.

Leliana shot Cassandra a mild glare. “The point is, everyone is talking about you.”

“Well, they’re welcome to stop,” Ciri said. “You know my views on the title.”

“Unfortunately, the Chantry’s internal conflict will make it difficult to approach the Templars for help,” Cullen said.

“Or the mages,” Josephine added.

“Is there anything I can do?” Ciri asked. “Honestly, I’m losing my mind here in Haven. I need something to do.”

“Yes, in fact,” Leliana said, eyes sharpening. “There is something. A revered mother in the Hinterlands sent word that she’d like to join the Inquisition, but the area is unsafe for travel. You could take some men out and secure the area and send Mother Giselle back to Haven safely.”

“The Hinterlands have seen some of the worst fighting between the Templars and the rebel mages,” Cullen said. “If you made the area safe for locals again, eliminated the apostates’ stronghold, that could be of use to us and to them.”

“Consider the benefits of recruiting people to our cause while you’re there,” Josephine said. “We must extend our reach beyond this valley.”

“I will go with you,” Cassandra said. “You will not shoulder this burden alone.”

“Who else do you wish to take?” Leliana asked.

“Olgierd,” Ciri said immediately. Of course. She’d seen him spar, seen him fight. And she found him trustworthy, despite what she knew of his past. He had a code of honor. He’d not break it.

“Of course,” Leliana said, echoing Ciri’s thoughts. “Anyone else?”

She had to think, but ultimately she said, "Varric. And Solas."

The Trevelyans, particularly Owain, would be her first choice. But they had duties here. Varric was fast, clever, and thought on his feet, and had a quip for any situation. He was unlike any dwarf she’d ever met on the Continent. She appreciated his humor and his ready wit, and he’d been unflinching in battle.

Solas was a frustrating enigma who seemed to simultaneously want to be taken as a mentor figure and expert in his field yet also to be overlooked as a humble hedge-mage. He condescended to her about her own ancestor. But she knew he had information she needed, and perhaps time would break through that mask he wore. Not to mention, a mage who could reliably use magic that didn’t depend on demon summoning or wild, unpredictable outbursts would be good to have on hand.

Cassandra and Cullen both looked dissatisfied with her choices.

“Are you sure about the dwarf?” Cassandra asked. “You haven’t spent much time with him. You don’t know how irritating he can be.”

Cullen frowned. “Never mind Varric, Seeker, what about the apostate? Is it safe to send an un-Harrowed mage along?”

“I’ve not been Harrowed,” Ciri pointed out.

Cullen's ears turned red. "Yes, but you're – well. The Hand. And a warrior."

“These are my choices,” Ciri said firmly. “They all come, so long as they wish to.”

Cassandra backed down. “As you say, Lady Hand.”

With little else to discuss, the meeting broke up. Leliana sent runners to find Varric, Olgierd, and Solas, and Cassandra and Ciri headed to their rooms to pack for the road.

With saddlebags slung over her arm and swords strapped to her back, Ciri made her way down to the enclosure by the smithy, falling into step with a similarly burdened Olgierd as she went.

“My apologies,” he told her quietly. “It was ill done of me to pry.”

“No, I’m the one who’s sorry,” she said. “You didn’t need to hear that.”

“Consider it forgotten,” he said. “Witcher.”

Startled, she looked up to see a small, understanding smile curving across his lips. _Witcher_. Not princess, not Source, not Lady Hand or anything else.

He understood after all.

“Come on,” she said, smiling back. “This should be interesting.”


	9. Clashes and Nicknames

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ciri learns a bit more about her companions as they travel. The Hinterlands are dangerous, and Mother Giselle has words of wisdom. Olgierd broods.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to brightspot149 for beta-reading! 
> 
> DAI dialogue isn't mine.

Ciri stopped shivering after the second day of travel down the mountain. With snow no longer coating the ground, and alpine winds ceasing to blow through the camp, she warmed quickly. Her companions, however, took longer to warm to each other. Cassandra and Varric seemed unable to go more than an hour without sniping at each other over some incident in Kirkwall. Solas stayed aloof, offering commentary only when addressed. Olgierd was the easiest to talk to, but safe topics were limited in mixed company.

She finally had enough of it when they set up camp for the second night beneath a pair of towering pine trees. Cassandra and Varric argued through picketing the horses, pitching the tents, and making the fire, and as the sun started to set, Ciri rounded on them in exasperation.

“Varric, if you and Cassandra don’t explain what you’re arguing about, I’m sending you both back to Haven,” she said.

They both started talking at once.

“He had knowledge we needed–”

“She _kidnapped_ me–”

“–Friends with the Champion–”

“–Days, in Hawke’s house–”

“–Knew the apostate!”

“–Stabbed my book!”

Ciri put her fingers to her lips and whistled, a loud, piercing noise. They both stopped shouting, and Ciri gave mental thanks to the long summers on Skellige as a child, when Cerys and Hjalmar had taught her how to do that.

“One at a time, please,” Ciri said. “Varric?”

“No shit, Sparrow, there I was minding my own business in the Hanged Man,” Varric began. “When a bunch of armored thugs busted down my door and dragged me to Hawke’s mansion. The Seeker was there. Seeking, I guess. You know the apostate who blew up the Kirkwall Chantry? Well, he used to be a buddy of mine. After everything went to shit – with Knight-Commander Meredith calling for an Annulment, and First Enchanter Orsino turning into a corpse monster, and Meredith turning into a red lyrium statue – he fled Kirkwall with Hawke. The Seeker showed up a few years later with questions.”

“Marian Hawke was a key figure in a number of events in Kirkwall,” Cassandra said. “She was central to ridding the city of the Qunari threat, and to standing against the Annulment of the Kirkwall Circle. Her associates were always neck-deep in conspiracies and trouble. A blood mage, an abomination, a pirate, a runaway Tevinter slave, a woman from the notoriously corrupt Kirkwall guard, a prince turned Chantry brother – not to mention Varric.”

“Please, feel free not to mention me,” Varric muttered.

“It was only natural that our investigation into the Chantry explosion would lead us to Varric,” Cassandra said. “He is the writer, after all. He wrote an entire book on the Champion’s exploits.”

Something about this timeline wasn’t lining up for Ciri. “But why did you wait so long to investigate?” she asked Cassandra.

“It wasn’t a priority,” Cassandra said stiffly. “Not until Divine Justinia began preparations for an Inquisition.”

Varric shook his head. “It didn’t matter. Hawke and Blondie left to go bust open mage towers, and after that, I lost track of them.”

“Can you two put this feud aside?” Ciri asked. “We’ll be working together for months, possibly longer. The only ones who benefit from having us at each other’s throats are our enemies.”

Cassandra and Varric looked at each other dubiously.

“So long as he freely shares his information,” Cassandra said.

“And she doesn’t get violent,” Varric countered.

Ciri clapped her hands together. “Good, it’s settled. Now please, for the sake of my sanity. Stop arguing.”

She left them standing there awkwardly, not making eye contact, and went back to Solas and Olgierd, both seated around the campfire.

“That was well done,” Solas complimented her quietly. “Are you accustomed to being the peacemaker among your friends and family?”

Ciri laughed. “I’m more inclined to start an argument than mediate one,” she said. “But they were giving me a headache.”

“The trail rations are a boon,” Olgierd said, “for they certainly scared away all the game in the area.”

Ciri wasn’t sure the lack of game was entirely due to their quarreling companions. There was an eerie stillness to the air, as if the edge of the Hinterlands was holding its breath. She had a terrible feeling that when the stillness broke ahead of them, it would do so violently.

She held out her marked hand to Solas. “What do you make of this?” she asked. “Is it Force magic? The Fade?”

“Neither, but I can see how you might come to those conclusions,” Solas said. “If you had asked me earlier, I would have allayed your curiosity. It is Veil magic, that of the barrier between this world and the Fade.”

“Thus your ability to fix the tears,” Olgierd said.

It explained far more than that, but it raised a host of other questions. Did Solas know what he'd inadvertently told her?

The Veil – the barrier that kept the demons and spirits in their own world – contained Elvhen magic. Did that mean it was made, and not natural? _When? How? And why?_

Solas didn’t look like a man who’d just revealed world-shatteringly important news. He looked calm and politely inquisitive, as always. He turned from Ciri to poke at the fire with a long stick.

“Ciri, you’re a mage,” Solas said. “And yet you do not practice magic beyond your unique Fade step ability. You’ve chosen to walk the path of a warrior instead.”

 _Statements, it was always statements with Solas_.

“My magic is powerful, but difficult to control, unpredictable,” Ciri said. “That ‘Fade step’ is the entirety of what I could master.”

_Give or take all of time and space._

“Would you like to learn magic?” Solas asked. “I’d be happy to teach you.”

That seemed like an unnecessary complication, and yet, it was a tempting offer. Triss had managed to teach the mages of this world the magic of the Continent. Perhaps she could learn their magic in turn. Her mental block with her own world’s magic was insurmountable after the events of the Korath Desert. She looked to Olgierd, but he just shook his head.

“I’ve no magic you wish to learn,” he said. “Best not look to me for instruction.”

Solas raised his eyebrows. “You are a mage as well?”

“Of a sort,” Olgierd said. “I dabbled, in my younger years.”

“You either are a mage, or you aren’t,” Cassandra said, rejoining the conversation. “Mages do not ‘dabble.’”

Olgierd smiled at that. “Well then, I suppose I’m no mage at all.”

Cassandra made a sound of disgust Ciri normally associated with Varric.

“I accept your offer,” Ciri said. “Shall we begin back in Haven?”

"Or on the road tomorrow," Solas said. "There are many benign exercises we can do on horseback to get you in touch with your magic."

“I look forward to it,” Ciri said honestly.

“Wait, can we go back to Bruiser being a mage?” Varric asked. He joined them at the fire, holding his hands out to the flickering flames.

“I take it that’s my new moniker,” Olgierd said. He sounded less than enthusiastic.

“You charged a demon on horseback,” Varric said. “You stared down the Seeker. And you’re damn good with that sword. Shit, now I have to come up with something else. Cutter? Flash? Red? You’re hard to name.”

Cassandra still seemed stuck on the impossibility of two sword-wielding magic users. “You cannot be a mage.”

Olgierd raised a scarred hand, and with a twist of his wrist, summoned flames from the campfire to dance across his fingers. In the flickering light, his hair looked bloody, and the long crescent scar on his skull took on a sinister, deep shadow.

“I dabbled,” he said again, closing his hand and quenching the flames.

“...Yeah, Red works,” Varric said.

Cassandra looked disturbed. "Did you... You are not Harrowed. _None_ of you are Harrowed.”

“No demon can tempt me,” Olgierd said. “Not anymore.”

Ciri realized that despite Cassandra’s fear, she’d been in Thedas for four weeks now and had nothing but normal, pleasant dreams, albeit unusually vivid ones. “I don’t believe any spirit or demon has ever tried,” she said.

“They wouldn't," Solas said. "In my journeys through the Fade, I've come across no memories of the ancient Elvhen being preyed upon by demons or becoming abominations. Despite being human, your magic is akin to your ancestor's, and thus they leave you in peace. Or so I believe."

Ciri nodded in understanding. That was a relief. With all she had to deal with, the last thing she needed was to have to fight off demons coming for her mind at night.

“What do you think we’ll find in the Hinterlands?” she asked, changing the subject.

“Trouble,” Varric said.

Cassandra shook her head at his flippant answer. “King Alistair and Queen Elissa invited the rebel mages to Ferelden. When the Templars pursued them across the border, they fled into the Hinterlands. This area has seen some of the worst fighting.”

“And the peasants are caught in the middle,” Solas observed. “Always it is the innocent who suffer in times of conflict.”

“We’ll help them,” Ciri said. “The Inquisition _does_ help people, doesn’t it, Cassandra?”

Cassandra looked offended that she even had to ask. “Our purpose is to restore order and bring justice. Of course we shall help people. We must.”

“You’ll hear no argument from this quarter,” Olgierd said, and that was that.

Dinner passed quietly, a cold meal of bread, cheese, and cured meat. Ciri no longer shared a tent with Olgierd. Cassandra seemed to think it improper, and claimed the other half of Ciri’s tent as a combination of chaperone and bodyguard. Varric now shared Olgierd’s tent, and Solas slept alone.

Cassandra fell asleep almost immediately, her breath taking on an even, slightly nasal pitch as slumber overtook her. Sleep eluded Ciri, however, and she stared up at the canvas ceiling, contemplating the earlier conversation – and what lay ahead.

 _The Veil is Elvhen. And the Elvhen are almost certainly a lost branch of the Aen Undod._ What became of its creator, if there was one? It seemed impossible that they could still be alive after thousands of years. Did they have a descendant out there in the world, aiming to undo their work and unleash chaos?

Whatever the case was, there was trouble ahead. Varric’s words would no doubt prove true. Templars, mages, a religious schism, and – as Solas said – innocents caught in the middle. For a moment, she wished Geralt or Yennefer were here to tell her what she should do. But they had faith in her. And she could stand on her own two feet.

She rolled over and hitched the blanket up around her shoulders. Sleep would be hard to come by tonight.

* * *

Ciri had been right. The stillness broke with blood and violence in the morning on the fourth day of travel. They crossed paths with Templars pursuing mages not once, but twice. Ciri only tried to help the mages the first time. They rebuffed her help, violently turning on her and her companions with the same spells they cast at the Templars.

In the end, all lay dead. A testament to centuries of fear and prejudice.

Varric nudged a Templar’s corpse with his foot. “I’ll get the wood.”

“I’ll come with you,” Ciri said.

They ventured off the path into the sparse forest, collecting dead pine branches in their arms. They walked in silence, Varric looking up at her with a pensive expression.

“You and Red,” he said finally. “You’ve seen worse.”

She honestly didn’t know what horrors Olgierd had seen, had committed. But Ciri? She had indeed seen worse. She was there in Rivia during the pogrom when Geralt and Yennefer both nearly lost their lives. She'd been in Stygga Castle when Geralt's rescue turned into a bloodbath on both sides. She’d been at the battle in Skellige against the Wild Hunt that had nearly presaged the end of their world.

“I have,” she agreed. “Though you’d have to ask Olgierd about his experiences.”

“Better not,” Varric said. “I noticed the scars. They’re hard to miss. I don’t think I’d like to hear the stories behind them.”

“No, you can’t unhear that story, and even I don’t know all the details,” Ciri said. “But we’re not the only ones who were familiar with violence.”

That was true; while Cassandra and Solas had both called out to Templars and mages respectively to lay down their arms, they joined in battle without so much as a flinch. And Varric seemed entirely unperturbed.

“Who, me?” Varric asked. “Sparrow, I lived through _all_ the shit that happened in Kirkwall. You develop a tolerance for blood after a while. I was more concerned for you. You look – kinda young.”

“I’m old enough for what the Inquisition wants of me,” Ciri said.

Varric grimaced. “Point taken.”

“You needn’t worry about me, Varric,” Ciri said. She stopped to gather one last armful of dead wood and turned to go. “I can handle myself.”

“I believe it, Sparrow.”

They made their way back to their companions, laden with wood. While they’d been gathering kindling, the other three had stripped the fallen of armor and weapons and dragged the bodies into a macabre pile. Cassandra looked over from where she stood with the horses, tying a bundle of staves and swords to the back of her horse.

“You return,” she stated. “Good. Let’s get this done, and quickly.”

Ciri and Varric piled the kindling around the bloody stack of corpses. Olgierd and Solas looked at each other, and Solas gestured to Olgierd as if to invite him to do the honors.

Olgierd held out a hand. “ _Aenye.”_

The kindling caught, and a spark jumped from the wood to a bloody hem of a mage’s robe. His fingers twitched, and the fire flared, then roared.

The heat seared Ciri's face, and she had to take a step back from the makeshift pyre. Still, she didn't look away as the flames ate the bodies. Her respect for the dead was the least she could give.

When the fire burned itself out, Solas dampened the ashes with an ice spell and spread them with a stick. “We should continue on,” he said. “The day is almost half done.”

“The Inquisition camp is not far ahead,” Cassandra said. “We have only an hour more of riding.”

“Good,” Ciri said. She mounted Zephyr and turned her toward the road. “Perhaps the scouts will have more information for us.”

Her companions followed suit. Their journey was unimpeded for the last leg, though they heard fighting in the distance. Once, they passed a burned-out shell of a cabin, with only the chimney and frame remaining. Two fresh graves were all that remained of its occupants. Whoever had buried them was nowhere to be seen.

It was a shame. The Hinterlands had an untamed, natural beauty – tall, bristling pines, clear streams, mossy boulders, and rolling hills, with craggy mountains off in the distance. In times of peace, it must have been glorious. She could only imagine the sorts of odes Dandelion would be inspired to write faced with such scenery.

“There,” Cassandra said after a little under an hour of riding. “The camp is just ahead.”

Ciri could see a glimpse of beige tents between the trees on the ridge up ahead. The smell of a campfire wafted in their direction. _Finally._

They rode into the small, well-organized camp populated by a dozen scouts and soldiers all moving about with purpose. As soon as they dismounted, scouts approached and took their horses to a picket line for them, directing them to a young-looking redheaded dwarven scout with a spray of freckles across her lightly tanned face.

“You must be the Hand,” the scout greeted Ciri. “We’ve heard the stories – everyone has. We know what you did at the Breach. It’s an honor to meet you, Your Worship. Inquisition Scout Harding, at your service. I – all of us here – we’ll do whatever we can to help.”

Varric laughed to himself. “Harding, huh? Ever been to Kirkwall’s Hightown?”

Scout Harding looked bemused. “I can’t say that I have. Why?”

"Because then you'd be Harding in – Nah, never mind."

“ _Ugh,_ ” Cassandra groaned.

Some things would probably never change, even with their agreed-upon truce in place. Ciri ignored her companions and nodded to Scout Harding. “A pleasure to meet you, though I’m a bit worried about all these rumors that everyone’s heard.”

“Oh, it’s not that bad,” Scout Harding said. “They’re just saying you’re the last great hope for Thedas.”

“Fantastic,” Ciri muttered.

"We should get to business," Scout Harding continued. "The situation here is pretty dire. We came to secure horses from Dennet, Redcliffe's old horse master. I grew up here, and locals always said that Dennet’s herds were the strongest and the fastest this side of the Frostbacks. But with the mage-Templar fighting getting worse, we couldn’t get to Dennet. Maker only knows if he’s still alive.”

“Haven barely has the capacity for the horses already there,” Ciri said, concerned. “Bringing in more seems like a bad idea.”

Scout Harding shrugged. "Our people need to travel at speeds faster than walking. I'd take it up with the Commander if I were you."

“Believe you me, I will,” Ciri said.

“And where is the revered mother?” Cassandra asked.

“At the Crossroads,” Scout Harding said, turning to point down the ridge to a tall statue surrounded by huts. “She’s been tending to the refugees and the wounded. Our latest reports say that the war has spread there, too. Corporal Vale is stationed there with some soldiers to protect the people, but they won’t be able to hold out much longer.”

“Then we’d best be on our way,” Olgierd said.

“Yes,” Scout Harding agreed. “No time to lose.”

Before they left, Ciri took a minute to get writing materials from the requisition officer, and she jotted down a quick, emphatic note to Commander Cullen insisting that the expansion to the horse enclosure be completed as soon as possible.

“Have this taken directly to the Commander on the next trip to Haven,” she told one of the scouts, who saluted her with wide eyes.

They left the camp on foot, eyes and ears peeled for signs of fighting. They only had a five-minute walk to the Crossroads before they heard the shouting. They unsheathed their weapons and ran around the corner into a scene of chaos – spires of ice, glowing glyphs, mages and sellswords clashing with heavily armored Templars, and amidst all of that, Inquisition soldiers doing their level best to cut both sides down and protect the refugees.

“Hold!” Cassandra cried fruitlessly to the advancing Templars. “We are not apostates!”

Solas, meanwhile, tried in vain to reason with a rebel mage. “We are not Templars! We mean you no harm!”

It hadn’t worked the last two times. It didn’t work this time. Ciri stepped through the ether, sword drawn.

She came out in front of a Templar archer. Her sword struck true. She whirled and thrust deep into the leather armor of a sellsword advancing on her back.

“Behind you!” Cassandra cried.

She raised her sword to parry a strike from an armored Templar. The hard blow radiated up her arm. She stepped away through nothingness. The Templar staggered, and she reappeared behind him, dagger drawn in her off-hand. She drove the blade home between the armored plates. The Templar toppled at her feet with a grunt.

Ciri took a moment to glance around the refugee camp turned battlefield. Across the way, Olgierd took out a Templar with a brutal swing that covered him in a spray of blood. Solas threw a barrier over the Inquisition soldiers and the innocents they fought to protect. Cassandra bellowed a challenge and bashed a mage senseless with her shield.

A bolt whipped past her face. She turned to see a mage fall, the bolt buried deep in his eye.

“Watch yourself, Sparrow!” Varric called.

Ciri saw a mage raise her staff. She stepped back through the ether, prepared to strike.

Finally, the last of them fell. All was quiet once more.

They drifted together, catching their breath in the aftermath of the battle. An Inquisition pennant snapped above their heads in the light breeze.

“What now?” Varric asked.

Ciri took a look around. _There’s a suspiciously tall hat_. “I’m going to go have a chat with the revered mother. Olgierd, Varric, Solas, if you could ask around the area, see what needs to be done to help these people –”

“Say no more,” Olgierd said. “Though they may find the blood off-putting.”

"We'll go back to camp for fresh clothes later," Ciri promised. "Cassandra, Scout Harding mentioned a Corporal Vale. Will you find him and get his report on the area?"

“Of course, Lady Hand,” Cassandra said. Ciri glared, and she amended her words. “Lady Ciri.”

“We’ll reconvene here,” Ciri said, “in no more than half an hour.”

With everyone agreed on a course of action, she went in search of the revered mother and her ridiculous hat. She found her comforting an Inquisition soldier, panicked at the thought of magic being used to heal him. Her words were kind but practical.

“Mother Giselle?” Ciri said. “Do I have the right woman?”

“I am, and you do,” the revered mother said. “And you must be the one they are calling ‘the Hand of the Maker.’”

“Don’t ask me, I was asleep when Divine Justinia thought that up,” Ciri said. “Now it’s everywhere, and too late to take back.”

“We seldom have a say in our fate, I’m sad to say,” Mother Giselle chuckled. “But that is not why I wished to speak with you.”

“I thought you wanted to join the Inquisition,” Ciri said.

“Of course,” Mother Giselle said. “Your cause is just, and it was founded by Divine Justinia herself. But if I might give you some advice….”

“On?”

“The Breach, and the fiend who created it, are not the only threats you face. The Chantry’s conflict over you might derail the faith, and cast doubt upon your Inquisition,” she said.

“Not _my_ Inquisition,” Ciri protested.

“Is it not?” Mother Giselle asked. “You gave orders to your companions easily enough. But that is beside the point. I am familiar with the grand clerics behind the denouncement of the Inquisition – and you. Some of them are simply grandstanding, hoping to become the new Divine. Others fear what this means for the faith. The Maker sending his Hand to do his will changes much about our religion.

“Go to them,” she urged Ciri. “Show them that you are no demon to be feared.”

“If I fail, what happens to the Chantry?”

“We soldier on, as Andraste would have us do,” Mother Giselle said. “But you will not be alone in Val Royeaux. Divine Justinia still has her supporters among the remaining grand clerics. Your task is not so grim as you might imagine.”

“I’ll consider it,” Ciri said.

“And I shall finish my work here and travel to Haven,” Mother Giselle replied.

Ciri said her goodbyes and returned to stand beneath the Inquisition pennant, watching as the refugee camp slowly returned to normal. There, two Inquisition scouts hauled away bodies. And there, a merchant restocked his cart, picking up goods that had scattered across the ground in the battle.

Cassandra returned first, then Varric. Solas came next, and finally Olgierd, still tacky with blood.

“What can we do?” Ciri asked.

“We must find where the Templars and mages are gathered, and root them out,” Cassandra said immediately. “The area will never be safe otherwise.”

Ciri nodded and looked at Varric.

“They’re starving here,” he said frankly. “They’d hunt the rams in the foothills, but all the fighting makes it too dangerous. If we could do that, or put someone on it, that’d be a big help.”

“There are caches around the area, filled with blankets and the like,” Olgierd said. “The apostates hid them for their comrades. It’s been suggested that we find them and appropriate them for the refugees.”

“I ran across a man with an ill wife,” Solas said. “He spoke of a cult in the hills that his son Hyndel has joined. The wife needs a potion that the son knows how to make.”

Ciri nodded again. “We’ll put scouts on the rams and caches when we get back to camp. The Templars and mages might take some time. And the cult in the hills bears investigating. Did he tell you anything else?”

“No, nothing,” Solas said.

“We’ll do all we can,” Ciri said. “These people deserve better.”

She didn’t know what to make of the look in Olgierd’s eyes as he gazed about the collection of huts. “That they do,” he said, staring heavily at a child lying wounded on a pallet in the grass.

“Cheer up, Red,” Varric said, slapping Olgierd on the back. “You got the bastards who did it.”

“For now,” Olgierd said.

With that grim pronouncement, they left the Crossroads behind for the camp. They had work to do.

* * *

“Maferath’s balls!” Varric blurted as Olgierd stripped out of his bloodstained robe and under-robe. “How are you still _alive_?”

Even though Ciri knew the answer, she had to wonder herself as she looked upon Olgierd, bare from the waist up. His skin was a gruesome canvas of scars – slashes, gouges, punctures, and neat slices from his shoulders down his chest and back, spreading across his arms to the backs of his hands. There was one, a deep, puckered stab wound, that entered right below his rib cage in the back and exited out the front.

He was an absolute mess.

“Fortune smiled upon me,” Olgierd said, with the same bland smile he’d used when claiming to be a minstrel. He pulled on a fresh under-robe and tied it shut.

“Bullshit you were fortunate,” Varric said.

Cassandra looked like she was reconsidering the abomination rumor. Solas eyed Olgierd’s scars with an expression Ciri couldn’t interpret.

“I thought you didn’t want to know the story,” she reminded Varric.

“Listen to Ciri,” Olgierd advised as he put on the outer robe and secured it with his sash and belt. “Not all tales are worth hearing.”

“I don’t know what you could say that would’ve possibly made me more curious,” Varric said. “But I’ll drop it.”

“That’s for the best,” Olgierd said. “Ciri?”

Ciri held out a rough map of the area for everyone to see. “Harding dispatched scouts to go search for those caches, and a pair of soldiers to go hunting for the refugees. She also marked some likely camping spots for us. It’s only early evening. Do we want to press on to the Dwarfson’s Pass camp before nightfall?”

“We may as well," Solas said. "Proceeding in that direction gets us closer to the cult in the hills, and the young man with the potion for his mother."

A fair point. With no arguments against, they saddled the horses and rode out.

They didn’t get far before they rode into a skirmish between two rebel mages and a Templar. They stopped at the fringes of the fight, watching spellfire and anti-magic flare back and forth.

“Wait them out, you think?” Varric suggested. “Kill the winner?”

The Templar crossed a glyph and dropped like a stone as one of the mages staggered and fell to a Smite.

“There’s your winner, Varric,” Ciri said.

Varric leveled his crossbow at the remaining mage. “Come on, don’t be stupid,” he muttered.

The mage raised his staff.

_Twang-thunk._

“He was stupid,” Varric sighed. He dismounted and went to the bodies, rifling through their belt pouches with a casual touch that spoke of years of experience. “Hey, look at this!”

“Found something interesting?” Ciri called over.

“Hotshot here had the location to the mage hideout on him. Roughly. It’s in the Witchwood somewhere.”

“We’ll put it on the list,” Ciri said. “Come on.”

They made camp by a fallen watchtower, tucked into the shelter of natural stone walls on one side. Scouts began trickling in after them not a half hour later, laying out a table, setting up sturdier tents for semi-permanent use, and finding a barrel for water to place by the picket line.

Malika Cadash popped up by her elbow, dressed in the hooded uniform of an Inquisition scout. “Hey, Your Handiness.”

Ciri smiled. “If it isn’t my fourth-favorite dwarf.”

“Hey!” she and Varric both protested.

“I do know people outside of the Inquisition,” she said. She was deeply fond of Zoltan Chivay, and Yarpen Zigrin had made an indelible impact on her as a young girl.

“Forget your shit taste in dwarves,” Malika said. “I have something for you. We found stuff in a cave. A dead guy, with this letter. And some noble lady got killed on her way to a cult. Also, a letter. And roaming Templars! We made them dead. Plus a ring and a letter.”

She handed them over and winked. “I’m efficient.”

Ciri laughed and accepted the letters and the rustic-looking ring. “You are. I can’t imagine why the Carta stuck you on lookout duty.”

“The Dasher doesn't appreciate initiative," Malika said. "I'll be around if you need me."

“Thank you,” Ciri said sincerely, and as Malika wandered off, she turned her attention to the letters.

“What do they say?” Cassandra asked.

“This one has the location of the Templar encampment,” Ciri said, skimming them. “This one is about a vein of lyrium in a cave farther into the pass. And this one is entreating the poor dead woman to join the cult in the hills. Her beloved, a Lord Berand, is waiting for her.”

“Poor bastard,” Varric said. “And we get to break the news.”

“She wouldn’t be dead if he hadn’t joined the cult in the first place,” Solas said disapprovingly.

“Sometimes, there’s no fixing your mistakes,” Olgierd said. “The best we can hope for is that he learns from this.”

Solas shot him a discontented look. Olgierd’s words clearly did not sit well with him.

“You’re a regular ray of sunshine, Red,” Varric said.

“Varric, I was meaning to ask you,” Ciri said. “When we were at the temple, you said that the red lyrium was evil. What did you mean by that?”

“I mean that it's evil," Varric said. "The regular stuff is pretty awful on its own, but you have to ingest it for it to work. You just have to get near the red stuff for it to start messing with you. You hear voices, music, get paranoid... I've seen it make things float, bring statues to life. It also turned Kirkwall's knight-commander into a giant lyrium statue."

“How do you think it got in the temple in the first place?”

“Beats me,” Varric said.

“Magic could have drawn on lyrium beneath the surface,” Solas suggested. “Corrupted it somehow.”

“Ugh. But that stuff in the hands of whoever caused the Breach?” Varric said. “That’s something I don’t want to think about.”

“We’ll find out, one way or another,” Cassandra said.

“Better one way, though, than the other,” Varric said with finality.

Rich, savory scents wafted over from the campfire, and they broke from their discussion to investigate. An enterprising scout had a large skillet balanced on a makeshift stand, and was serving up a mixture of grilled root vegetables and browned meat into bowls for the diners.

“Lady Hand,” he said with a bow as he passed Ciri a full bowl. “It’s not much, but it’s filling.”

“It smells delicious,” Ciri said. “Thank you, Scout–”

“Tavin,” he said. “My Lady.”

It tasted as good as it smelled. Ciri had to stop herself from inhaling her supper. She’d been hungrier than she thought.

“Cult tomorrow?” Varric suggested, looking up at the dimming sky as they sat in front of their tents.

“We may as well,” Ciri said. “It’s not far, and now we’ve three reasons to go. The woman’s potion, Lord Berand’s dead lady, and simply to investigate its purpose.”

“There is another thing,” Solas said. “As I explored the Fade last night, I sensed the presence of an intriguing artifact. I believe it to be located in the hills where the cultists are.”

“Four reasons,” Ciri amended.

“Great, that’s tomorrow figured out,” Varric said. “Anyone bring cards for diamondback? Wicked Grace? No?”

“You have that lute,” Cassandra said to Olgierd. “Do you truly play, or is it just so that you may tell people your ridiculous tale of being a minstrel?”

Olgierd flashed her a charming, empty smile. “I play. I learned as a boy alongside my brother, though he favored the tabor. Vlod always liked hitting things. When we were older, it was a way to woo the ladies. Music and dance won over a fair maid far better than battle and blood.”

“Ha!” Varric laughed. “You’re talking to the wrong woman, Red. The Seeker doesn’t have a romantic bone in her body.”

Cassandra flushed. “And how would _you_ know, dwarf? I appreciate a good song as well as a fine sword.”

Olgierd looked at Cassandra’s angry red cheeks and his smile turned sincere. “I can believe that.”

“Go on,” Varric urged. “Play something.”

“Fine, fine.” Olgierd ducked into the tent he shared with Varric and came back with the battered lute. “Ciri?”

“Which one?” she asked, already resigned to singing. “‘Ivanko?’ ‘In My Garden?’”

“‘Beloved?’” Olgierd suggested.

Ciri barely knew that one. “I could sing ‘The Violinist.’”

“That I know,” Olgierd said, his fingers already strumming the strings of his lute. Around the camp, conversations fell off as attention turned to their little group. Ciri raised her voice and sang.

"A white-winged bird sat upon a poplar,  
The sun set upon the evening beyond the fields.  
I have loved, I have loved unto anguish,  
A young, a young violinist.

“I have loved, enchanted by the strings,  
That melody lost in the grove.  
In the green grove where the cranes come in spring,  
I have brought my heart to the violinist.

"I had gone to him as if enchanted by the moon,  
I had gone to him, as to a March spring.  
And I did not know that enchanted music,  
Was not for me, but for another resounding.

“A white-winged bird sat upon a poplar,  
The sun set upon the evening beyond the fields.  
I have loved, I have loved unto anguish,  
A young, a young violinist."

Cassandra sniffled, and the scouts applauded.

“Play ‘The Ballad of Nuggins!’” Malika called out.

“I’m not familiar with that tune,” Olgierd said. “Perhaps one of you might sing it.”

Malika cackled and obliged, a few other scouts joining in with off-key gusto. As Olgierd went to put away his lute, Varric shook his head at Ciri, looking distinctly put out.

“What?” she asked him

“Now your nickname doesn’t fit, either,” he said. “Gah. You people just like to make my life difficult.”

“You could just call me Ciri, you know,” she said.

“That’s no good,” Varric said. “Names don’t say anything about a person. You need a nickname to uncover some facet of their personality, shine a light on a skill, highlight a physical trait in a straightforward or ironic way. Nicknames are much more descriptive than the names your parents give you.”

“You’ve given this a lot of thought,” Ciri said.

Varric shrugged expressively. “I’m a writer. It’s what I do.”

She looked up to see Olgierd slip away from the camp and into the gloom beyond the campfire, and she quietly made her excuses and followed him.

She found him leaning against a fallen pillar, eyes on the stars. “Ciri,” he greeted her.

“You’ve been off since the Crossroads,” she said. “What is it?”

“Just old ghosts,” he dismissed. “You needn’t fuss, dear.”

“I’ll fuss if I like,” she retorted. “What was it?”

“It’s not–” He sighed. “Do you know how many villages like the Crossroads there are in Velen? On the Redanian border?”

“I’ve no idea,” Ciri said. “Dozens.”

“Dozens,” he agreed. “I’m not a good man, Ciri. Some days it’s harder to forget that than others.”

She reached out and shoved him – lightly, but he still rocked back on his heels, surprised by the push.

“Stop,” she said, glaring up at him. “You can’t cling to your past and wish for a second chance at the same time. Pick one. And for _fuck_ ’s sake, pick the second chance.”

He looked at her in shock, then amusement, and to her surprise, he started to laugh. "Oh, Ciri. You would've hated my brother, but he would've worshiped you. Thank you. I'll try."

“Coming back to camp?” she asked.

“Nay, not yet,” he said. “I still can’t get enough of these stars.”

“I’ll see you in the morning, then.”

She returned as quietly and casually as she’d left, and ducked into her tent to escape the scouts’ sing-along. She wanted to try some of Solas’ meditative exercises before bed.


	10. Cults and Dreams

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A scout is rescued a minute too late. They investigate the cult and all its various problems. Ciri has a strange dream.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to brightspot149 for beta-reading!
> 
> Any canon dialogue belongs to DA:I and not me.

The camp buzzed with activity by the time Ciri crawled from her tent. Scouts strapped on weapons and headed out in twos and threes to investigate the area. Others stood by the campfire eating hurriedly. She looked to see who was awake and saw that she was the last one up. Varric waved her over.

“Songbird,” he greeted her. “Sleep well?”

She accepted a bowl of porridge from the scout serving up breakfast at the campfire. “I did,” she said. She’d dreamed of her time in an undersea kingdom while she’d been avoiding the Wild Hunt. “And Songbird?”

“You flit around the battlefield like a little bird, _and_ you sing like one,” Varric said. “There. The perfect nickname.”

She ate a spoonful of her porridge and hummed in appreciation. It was thick and rich, dotted with bits of dried dates and walnuts. Whoever was in charge of requisitions for the Hinterlands scouts was brilliant.

A scout came to hover nearby. He cleared his throat nervously.

“Scout Tavin?” Ciri said.

“Yes, Lady Hand – Your Worship,” he said. “There’s a problem. Ritts, one of our scouts, went out last night and didn’t check back in.”

“She went out alone?” Ciri asked, concerned.

“She was only checking on some apostates in the area,” Scout Tavin said. “Up by the cultists. I’ve got my own duties, or I’d go look for her myself. Maker, I hope she’s all right.”

Ciri exchanged looks with her companions. Another thing to do today, and it sounded like this needed to be the priority. “We’ll find her, Scout Tavin,” she reassured him.

“Thank you, Your Worship.”

Ciri finished her porridge and went back to her tent to change into her red and black armor and strap on her swords and dagger. How had she slept so long, and so deeply? Had Solas’ meditative exercises make that much of a difference?

She left the tent once more, ready to face the day. “Who has the map?” she asked.

Varric produced it from his belt pouch. “Cultists are here,” he said, stabbing an area just beyond a vague landmark with a gloved finger. “The scout would have been in this area. Are we checking out that cave?”

“We’ll leave it to the scouts,” Ciri said. “If there’s anything worth investigating, they’ll report back.”

“Rifts were reported here and here,” Varric continued, pointing at two different areas in Dwarfson’s Pass. “We can tackle them or go around. Your call.”

“After the cultist business,” Ciri said. “The rifts are too dangerous to be left alone.”

Cassandra took the map from Varric and tucked it away in her belt. “Agreed. We should move quickly. Maker knows what danger Scout Ritts is in.”

They left the scouts and the camp behind, moving farther into the pass on foot. Olgierd seemed more settled this morning. Less brooding, perhaps. Ciri was glad to see it.

Solas gave her a small smile as they walked along toward a tall, half-broken tower abutting a sheer cliff. “I suspected that the meditative exercises to get you in touch with your magic might deepen your connection to the Fade, but it seems they bore fruit faster than I’d hoped.”

“Next time, one of you should wake me if I oversleep,” Ciri said. “We’ve too much to do for me to sleep the day away.”

“Your magic is important as well,” Solas said. “But perhaps you might do the exercises while we travel, or an hour or more before you sleep. Tell me, did you find your dreams particularly vivid last night? Are they usually so?”

“They have been,” Ciri said. She took the first steps up the rickety stairs of the tower and thought back. “But I’ve had as many nights with vivid dreams as I’ve had where I don’t remember them at all in the morning.”

Those mornings were strange. She had the oddest feeling that she was supposed to be remembering something important.

“What do you dream of?”

“My past. Good experiences I’ve had.”

“Ah.”

“Ah?” Ciri echoed.

“The Fade could show you more if you are interested," Solas said. "Old memories of ages past, battles of ancient times. That it only shows you your own memories leads me to believe that you have lived an eventful life in your short years – or that you're not a very curious person. I doubt the latter is true."

She shot him a look over her shoulder, but he just seemed as politely attentive as always.

“That could be interesting,” she said. She _did_ want to learn more about the Fade. There was nothing like it in any of the other worlds she'd been to before.

The stairs opened up at the top of the tower onto a short bridge connecting to the cliff’s edge. Straight ahead, across a boulder-strewn, grassy field, was a crumbling fort with a barred gate.

“Our cultists should be in there,” Varric said. “And the scout should be somewhere out here.”

“We look for Scout Ritts first,” Ciri said firmly. “In that direction, do you think?”

No one argued, so they set out over the rocky field away from the fort. After less than a minute’s walk, the sound of clashing weapons could be heard ahead.

“Hurry!” Ciri urged her companions. She reached for her magic and stepped through the ether, leaving them swearing behind her.

She stepped out to strike at an armored Templar attacking an elven scout armed only with a bow and arrows. “Mage!” the Templar yelped.

A burst of black and red smoke appeared at the corner of Ciri’s eye, and Olgierd cut the Templar down with a heavy, cleaving strike.

“ _Don’t_ do that again,” he bit out.

The remaining Templar thrust a hand out, Smiting them both with a blinding white light. Every bone in Ciri’s body shrieked in pain. She staggered and lashed out blindly in the direction of the light.

“Ha!” cried the scout.

The Templar dropped, an arrow in his throat.

Ciri blinked spots from her eyes as she regained her footing. The Smite was worse than the Silence. She’d felt it throughout her whole body. But already the pain was fading.

Cassandra, Varric, and Solas ran up, weapons out. Cassandra frowned at her. “Did you not tell me not to be foolhardy, Lady Ciri? You must wait for us.”

“That could have gone very wrong,” Olgierd agreed. He rubbed the corner of an eye with a knuckle. “Templars are a different breed of enemy. You wouldn’t be so reckless on the Path. Don’t do so here.”

Ciri winced. She hated getting her own advice thrown back at her. Hearing Olgierd chastise her was different from a dressing-down from Vesemir or Geralt, but it stung just the same. “You’re right. It was foolish.”

“Your foolishness saved my life, Your Worship,” the scout piped up. She scowled at the dead Templars, tears in her eyes. “Bastards.”

Ciri looked around. The scout hadn't been alone, it seemed. Under a small tree, a blanket was spread out carefully, with a bottle of wine and two empty plates. Sprawled across the blanket was the corpse of an apostate, still vainly reaching for her staff in death. A slick stain of blood coated her chest where a Templar’s blade had run her through.

“Are you Ritts?” Ciri asked. “Scout Tavin sent us after you. He said you hadn’t reported back this morning.”

“Tav’s a good mate,” Ritts said. “I was held up. Investigating apostates.” She seemed to struggle for a moment with impotent rage and pain as she glared at the corpses of the Templars.

“Is that what you call it?” Varric muttered, eyeing the remains of the picnic.

Ciri glared him into silence. “Who was she, Ritts?” she asked gently.

“Eldreda. At least, I think that was her name.” Ritts shifted and looked away.

 _Poor girl_. “Ritts, look at me.” Ritts looked back, and Ciri gave her a steady, sympathetic look. “I know that look. I’ve worn it.”

Ritts covered her mouth, trying to hold in a sob. “She was – she was good. She never hurt anyone.”

“My condolences on your loss,” Olgierd said quietly. He knelt by the blanket to straighten Eldreda’s sprawled limbs, gently closing her vacant eyes.

“So – are you going to report me?” Ritts asked. She sniffed hard, rubbing her tears away. “I left without checking back in.”

Varric looked uneasy. “Shit, kid. I was gonna say something glib. But no.”

“Go back to camp,” Ciri told her, heart aching for her loss. “Scout Tavin will be glad to know you’re alive.”

“And ‘Dreda?” Ritts asked. “Her body – you can’t just leave her here.”

“We’ll burn it,” Olgierd said. “Go on, dear. Back to camp with you.”

With one final glance at the fallen mage, Ritts left them behind. Olgierd wrapped the body in the blanket and hefted it into his arms, carrying it to one of the mossy boulders.

“Your magic, Olgierd,” Cassandra began, face severe.

“Not now, Seeker,” Olgierd said. “Now we pay our respects to the dead.”

He laid his burden carefully across the boulder and stepped back, reaching out with a hand and gesturing. “ _Aenye_.”

The blanket, and the body within, were quickly consumed by scorching hot flames. Ciri stared into the dancing fire and berated herself. Another life lost. Had they been but two minutes faster up the tower, Eldreda might have been saved.

She flexed her marked hand, wincing a little. Was it just her imagination, or had it been heavier when she’d teleported this time?

Eldreda’s body crumbled to ash, leaving behind only bones. Solas smothered the flames with an ice spell, and Olgierd turned to Cassandra.

“As you were saying, Seeker.”

“Your magic is _not_ normal,” she said. “That smoke – the rumors of you being an abomination – are they true after all?” Her hand strayed to the hilt of her sword, and she stepped back.

“You saw the Templar Smite us both to limited effect,” Olgierd said. “Can a demon withstand such a thing without revealing itself?”

“I – no,” she said.

“I have my share of regrets,” Olgierd said. “But trust that I’m the only one in my head.”

“I do not like this,” Cassandra warned. “Does the Hand know your story?”

“I do,” Ciri said. “I trust him. So does my father.”

Solas looked at Olgierd as if he’d come to some realization. Varric just looked intensely curious.

“Very well,” Cassandra said grudgingly. “But know I’ll be watching you.”

“I’d expect nothing less,” Olgierd replied.

They turned from the pyre and made their way across the rocky field to the crumbling fort. Olgierd pulled Ciri aside, scarred hand heavy on her shoulder.

“You can’t save everyone,” he told her.

“Two minutes,” she muttered to him. “That’s all we needed. If I’d been alone, I could have done it, gone through time as well –”

“And faced both Templars on your own,” he interrupted. “For all your gifts, you’re no god. Accept it.”

He patted her shoulder and let her go.

She stared after his back as he walked away. What had come over him since their brief talk last night? Was it something she’d said? He’d been easy to put in a category of ‘odd companion with a disreputable past’ before, but now he was spilling out into her boxes where she kept Eskel and Coën and Lambert. She wasn’t sure what to make of it.

Small clusters of cultists lined the overgrown path to the barred gate. There were men and women in all manner of clothing: noble garments of Ferelden, rustic tradesmen’s garb, even mage robes. Most were human, and few appeared over forty. A severe blonde woman in the elaborate robes of a Circle mage stood in front of the gate. Her eyes flickered over their group, lingering on Ciri’s marked hand.

“I know you. They call you the Hand of the Maker,” the woman said, almost accusingly. “But _are_ you? The Maker has not told me.”

_Marvelous. A fanatic who believes her god speaks directly to her._

“The Divine believed it,” Ciri said. “I don’t.”

“As I suspected,” the woman said in satisfaction. “Stories of you mastering the rifts are just blind heresy.”

“Oh, no, she can seal rifts,” Varric said. “That part’s true.”

“Then prove it,” the woman demanded. “Show me that the rifts bend to your hand – the Maker’s Hand. Show me the power you wield.”

She turned to wave at a cultist behind the bars, and the gate creaked upwards with a harsh groan.

“What exactly is your cult doing out in the middle of nowhere?” Ciri asked. “What do you believe?”

“We are the Maker’s most faithful,” the woman said. “I am their Speaker. Anaïs is my name.”

“That tells us exactly nothing,” Olgierd said.

“The Maker is angry,” she said. “Can you not see how He tears asunder the very Veil? He struck down His own Divine, revealing the lie of the Chant of Light. It was arrogance to think that mortal lips could frame the Maker’s will.”

“Blasphemy,” Cassandra hissed.

Anaïs cast an unimpressed look at Cassandra and continued. “Soon He will call His faithful back to the Golden City. And we will be here, waiting for Him.”

Varric whistled under his breath. “Songbird, stop encouraging the crazy.”

They moved past the Speaker through the open gate. Cassandra bristled with indignation. “‘Blind heresy!’” she sputtered quietly. “That – that –”

“You’re looking for ‘cultist,’ Seeker,” Olgierd said.

“I suppose it’s only natural that some would turn to worshiping the Breach,” Solas said. “If only in hopes of appeasing it.”

_Holy fire…_

“Look at them all,” Cassandra said, glaring about at the gathered cultists. “How many of them walked away from their lives to rot here waiting for the end to come?”

“There’s a peculiar sort of madness to belief,” Olgierd agreed. “It strips a man of rational thought.”

Ciri thought she spied a faint green glow coming from up ahead. She beckoned her companions to follow her, not wanting to be lectured for running ahead again. They fell into step with her, hands easing weapons free as they went.

At the very back of the ruined fort, they found a grassy hollow at the bottom of a stone staircase. Lazily shifting and curving in midair was a sleeping rift, bright green and quiet. Ciri's hand sparked as they neared, and the rift flared in response, shooting out spikes of light with a crunching sound of grinding glass.

It spat out two of the green spindly demons. Ciri leaped to attack. She lashed out at one with a backhanded strike, then twisted away, half-somersaulting out of reach – a _step_ to the other demon and she thrust deep with _Zirael_. Olgierd parried the claws of the first demon as they reached for her. She teleported back to the safety of the stairs and disrupted the rift.

The demons froze, stunned, and her companions were quick to finish them off. The rift pulsed ominously. Solas took a second to throw a barrier over them.

Two more spindly-legged demons. She struck at the closer one, then whirled to carve the other from sternum to hip. The first reared up behind her, and she dodged nimbly _._ A thrust with _Zirael_ to her ambusher’s stomach, all the way through. She spun back to engage the second again, catching the descending claws on _Zirael._ She shoved it back with a powerful twist of her torso, and Cassandra struck it down.

The last demons fell at their feet, and she raised her hand to the rift, feeling the sparking, pulling connection and forcing her will upon the magic. It sealed with the grinding-glass sound Ciri was beginning to hate.

“No wonder they holed up here,” Varric said. “Look.”

He pointed at the ground below where the rift had been. Three corpses, all human.

“Doubters?” Solas suggested. “Or their most devout, looking to speed their way to the Golden City?”

“Does it matter?” Ciri asked. “They died for their foolishness.”

They made their way back up the stairs to the overgrown main hall. Anaïs awaited them at the top of the staircase.

“Maker’s tears, I was a fool to have doubted you,” she said, bowing with her hand over her heart. “How may we serve the Maker’s Hand?”

“I am _not_ – never mind." She looked not to Cassandra, but Varric. "Your thoughts?"

“Shit, Songbird, all these people managed to pull up stakes and disappear into the wilds without anyone noticing,” Varric said. “They claimed a derelict Ferelden castle as some sort of stronghold. I don’t know that I’d trust a bunch of religious crazies to do it, but they could easily play spy for you, keep an ear to the ground and pass on messages.”

“Nonsense,” Cassandra said. “Disperse them. You saw the bodies beneath the rift. They are mad, Lady Hand. I would not trust them to watch over Leliana’s pet nug. Send them to help the refugees, if it pleases you, but do not give them more responsibility than that.”

“They might leave here to spread word of the Inquisition,” Solas suggested. “Having our cause publicized would be worthy of them, and is unlikely to send them into danger.”

“Olgierd?” Ciri asked.

“Can we not give them all a good hard shake and send them home without supper?” he asked. “No? Then I agree with Cassandra. Send them to help the refugees.”

“Any among you with skill at healing should go to the Crossroads,” Ciri said to Speaker Anaïs. “The rest of you–” She sighed. “Go out into the world and spread word of the Inquisition. Or return to your homes. The Maker isn’t coming for you. The Breach was the work of a man, someone we’re hunting for. These aren’t the end times.”

Speaker Anaïs seemed about to protest, but she bowed again instead. "As you say, Lady Hand. The faithful will go forth to do your will."

“We’re also looking for two people,” Solas said. “An elven youth, Hyndel, and a nobleman, Lord Berand.”

“We have few elves among us,” Anaïs said. “The boy you seek is there, on the second floor. He keeps to himself.” She pointed to her right, halfway back to the entrance of the fort. “Lord Berand is known to me. He spends his time on the second floor of our tavern, to the left. Have you brought word of his lady?”

“Something like that,” Varric said.

“Maker keep you,” Anaïs said, and drifted off.

“The boy first,” Olgierd said. “His mother still lives. Lord Berand’s grief can keep.”

Solas agreed but had a curious look for Olgierd. "Few humans would prioritize the elven peasants over the human noble."

Olgierd shrugged. “I’ve a dislike for men who take their women for granted.”

Ciri could see Varric taking that in and adding it to his little pile of growing facts about Olgierd. Solas was, as always, nearly inscrutable.

They found Hyndel where the Speaker said he’d be. He was young, possibly in his late teens, hovering by a table where alchemy ingredients lay perilously close to food and drink. He wore mage’s robes, and he looked at them with caution.

“I greet you,” he said.

“Your mother is ill, _da’len_ ,” Solas said. “Did you not realize when you left for this cult that you were the only one who knew the recipe for her potion?”

Hyndel’s large eyes grew wide at Solas’ chastisement. “Ill? But she hasn’t had the breathing trouble in weeks! If I – here, take this potion to her. I already had some made up.”

“Take it yourself, boy,” Olgierd said. “Go home to your family.”

“But the Maker – the end times –”

“Are not coming,” Cassandra interrupted, then said more gently, “and even if they were, would you not prefer to spend them with your loved ones?”

Hyndel gave Ciri an uncertain look, and she nodded firmly.

“Go home, Hyndel,” she said. “Your parents are at the Crossroads. Inquisition scouts are camped in the mouth of Dwarfson’s Pass. One of them can escort you there safely.”

“If you’re certain, Your Worship.”

Hyndel left them behind, darting glances at them over his shoulder as he left.

“Poor kid,” Varric said. “First he finds out he’s a mage, then the Circles fall, then after he goes back home war breaks out in his backyard, then he gets sucked into a cult.”

“With any luck, we’ve set him right,” Solas said. “His parents will be glad for his return.”

“Now for Lord Berand,” Cassandra said.

They made their way out of the crumbling wing of the fort and crossed the open hall to the other side. This side had a tavern of sorts, with kegs and tables, and people of all different walks of life sitting and discussing what brought them to seek out the cult in the hills.

 _Enough of that. They’ll be home, or making themselves useful, soon enough_.

A well-dressed young man with a shaved head approached them on the upper floor of the tavern. He wrung his hands together, the corners of his mouth tight with anxiety.

“Excuse me,” he said politely. “While you were coming up, did you meet a young noblewoman with blonde hair and pale green eyes? Lady Vellina should be here. We need to be together when the Maker comes.”

“You’re Lord Berand,” Solas said.

The man seemed taken aback that Solas was the one addressing him. “I am. And you are?” He addressed his question to Cassandra.

“Sit down, kid,” Varric said. “We have some bad news.”

Lord Berand’s face went pale.

“No.”

“Our scouts found her body,” Ciri said. “They also found your letter.”

“You couldn’t spare a guard?” Olgierd asked. “A man asks his beloved to join him in waiting out the end of the world, you’d think he’d send a guard to see her through the dangers of the journey.”

Lord Berand steadied himself on a nearby table as he took a shaky breath, tears in his eyes. “Vellina...Vellina is dead?”

Solas picked up where Olgierd left off. “You entreated her to walk through a war zone unprotected. Surely this outcome is not completely unexpected.”

“But we were meant to be together,” Lord Berand said hoarsely. “How could the Maker part us?”

“The Maker played no part in this,” Olgierd said. “This was your own doing.”

Lord Berand’s voice broke on a sob. “What am I supposed to do now?”

“You failed her,” Olgierd said. “Learn from this.”

“Go home,” Ciri said, gentler than her friend. “Mourn Vellina. The end isn’t coming, but the Inquisition is. Perhaps you might reach out to the Trevelyans in Ostwick, or to other nobles to assist us.”

He swiped at his face with a rough hand. “I shall. The Inquisition will have my family’s support. In Vellina’s name, I pledge it.”

They left him behind, stifling his grief into his silk sleeve.

“Don’t you think you were a little hard on the guy, Red?” Varric asked. “Chuckles? He was really broken up over it.”

“A man who abandons his beloved is no man at all,” Olgierd said. “He was ‘broken up’ over the very thing he caused.”

“You are right, Olgierd,” Solas said. “I suspect he _will_ learn from this.”

Ciri knew what drove Olgierd’s anger at Lord Berand. That wouldn’t be fixed with a single talk at camp. But Solas was a mystery to her, one that itched at her at odd moments.

“I sense the artifact ahead,” Solas said. “Up this ladder.”

Ciri followed at his heels as he led them up a splintering wood ladder into a dusty, abandoned room filled with junk and debris. Light filtered in through the broken roof above them, and Solas gestured. “There.”

The artifact stood knee height, a dull gray-black sphere with odd square gears protruding from two sides. Ciri moved closer to get a better look. She couldn’t tell if it was stone or metal. It stood on a base of polished wood, as pristine as the day it had been shaped.

“These artifacts were once used to strengthen the Veil,” Solas said, folding his hands behind him and raising his chin. “The wards of my people were unmatched in their ingenuity.”

Ciri reached out with her marked hand, curious, and the artifact flared with a bright green light that swirled around it before settling into a steady corona.

Solas looked at her in surprise. “Yes. The wards are working now. This area will be safer for travelers.”

“ _How_ , Songbird?” Varric asked, looking faintly aggrieved.

“Don’t look at me,” Ciri said. “I just touched it.”

“Maybe don’t touch the weird shit with your magic hand,” Varric said. “Just a thought.”

She laughed. “Duly noted, Varric. Solas, do you think you could draw this for the scouts? They could keep an eye out for more of these on their patrols.”

Solas nodded. “I can draw, but I lack materials.”

“Not a problem,” Varric said, fishing a folded parchment and a stubby charcoal pencil from a pocket of his tailored leather coat. “Have at it, Chuckles.”

Solas drew with swift, clean lines, capturing the image in just a handful of strokes across the page. Ciri marveled as she watched over his shoulder, and wondered if he’d been an artist before he’d become a wandering mage.

“Shall we go?” she asked as Solas tucked the parchment away.

“I’ve had my fill of these cultists,” Olgierd said. “Let’s find more sensible company. Demons, perhaps.”

They made their way back down the ladder, walking past cultists and down the stairs to exit the broken fort and head into daylight – and sanity.

* * *

“I had it handled,” Ciri scolded Olgierd, wrapping a linen bandage soaked in burn salve around his forearm.

He raised an eyebrow at her. “And how were you intending to handle a melting ifrit? Disappear at it? _Ow_ , woman, mind how you pull that bandage.”

They were back at camp again, waiting for supper to cook. They’d dealt with the rifts in the pass with little trouble, save for one notable wrinkle: the large molten demons that set fire to their surroundings and their attackers. That had only been one of the rifts, but it raised questions about what other demons had yet to appear.

“Solas,” Ciri said, “what sort of demon were those fiery ones?”

“They were demons of rage,” Solas said. “The ethereal demons are wraiths, too insubstantial to embody an emotion.”

“And the green ones that were all legs and arms?”

“Demons of terror,” Solas said. “The gray ones we saw so many of in the valley beyond Haven are shades. The large demon we fought beneath the Breach was a demon of pride.”

“Are there many others?” Ciri asked.

“Countless others,” Solas said. “Though I believe we’ll only see a few of them. Despair demons are likely. You will know them when you see them. Others will stay far away from the rifts in self-preservation.”

Cassandra shook her head. “That is not true. Demons wish to enter our world, to cause havoc. They are jealous of what we have.”

“The physical world is a strange and frightening place to a spirit,” Solas said. “The vast majority of them prefer peaceful coexistence, and would happily stay in the Fade, only reflecting what our world shows them through dreams.”

Cassandra looked doubtful, but she didn't contradict him again. Instead, she turned to Ciri. "You were to show me your techniques. Your oils."

“I was,” Ciri agreed. “I’ll get them.”

She ducked into the tent and pulled the vials from her bandolier. _Which can I show them? They haven’t any vampires or relicts, nor any elementals. I’ve heard naught about curses or hybrids._ She palmed five vials. She stepped out of the tent, items clutched in her fists.

“Here,” she said. “Let me set them down.”

She sat between Cassandra and Varric and held them up one at a time. “Beast oil, for fighting animals, and hanged man’s venom, for fighting people. Draconid oil, for wyverns and the like. Insectoid oil, for giant insects. And specter oil, for spirits.”

“Your specter oil did not make a difference when you used it in the valley,” Cassandra said.

“No,” Ciri said. _They have the wrong sort of spirits here for it to work_.

“Would any of the others work?” Varric asked. He gave the hanged man’s venom an uneasy look.

“I know the beast oil and the hanged man’s venom would,” Ciri said. “As for the others, I’ve no idea. I’ll find out should I ever face those enemies.”

“Let me know,” Varric said. “There are a couple of alchemists in Kirkwall who would kill for those formulas if they’re effective.”

A scout hovered over Ciri’s shoulder and waited for acknowledgment.

“Yes?”

“The cave in the pass was behind a magical barrier,” the scout reported. “We breached it with the help of that elven boy you sent us to escort back to the Crossroads. Demons and an apostate inside, as well as a cache of supplies and a vein of red lyrium.”

“Seal it off,” Ciri ordered. “No one gets near that cave. _Why_ did you take Hyndel there?”

“He volunteered, Your Worship,” the scout said. “We got him safely to the Crossroads before dinner.”

“And his mother?” Solas asked.

“Safe as houses, ser,” the scout said. “Er. Safer than the houses hereabouts, anyhow.”

Solas nodded, and the scout bowed shallowly and left.

“More red lyrium,” Varric muttered. “Shit.”

“Is there any way to destroy it?” Ciri asked.

“I looked into that in Kirkwall,” Varric said. “Short answer, no. Long answer, kind of, but also no.”

“We’ll just have to keep guards posted, then,” Ciri said. “Or seal the cave entrance.”

“I hope that’s the last of it,” Varric said. “I doubt it. But I hope.”

Scout Ritts came by with bowls of stew, still red-eyed and subdued. She handed them out and lingered for a moment.

“Thanks again,” she said to Ciri. “For saving me.”

Ciri’s heart ached for Ritts. Her loss was fresh, the pain raw. After losing the Rats, losing Mistle, to Bonhart, it took years before she remembered Mistle as she’d been alive, and not mutilated in death. The Templars had not been Bonhart. Ritts would recover, and find love again.

“No member of the Inquisition stands alone,” Cassandra told her. “You will always have assistance, should you need it.”

Ritts nodded, and Cassandra said kindly, “I understand your pain, Scout Ritts. I, too, lost someone. An old love, a mage, died in the Conclave.”

Varric looked sharply at Cassandra.

“My lover was killed in front of me,” Ciri told her. “Just as yours was. The pain will fade, Ritts. I promise.”

“Give yourself time to mourn,” Olgierd said. “I lost my Iris years ago, and some days it still hurts to think on it.”

“I’m marked down for the next trip back to Haven,” Ritts said. “I need to – to not be here.”

“Do what you must,” Ciri said. “Be well, Scout Ritts.”

“Thank you, Your Worship.” Ritts bowed and left.

“What glib thing were you going to say earlier, Varric?” Ciri asked once Ritts was out of earshot.

Varric, to his credit, looked mildly ashamed. “Nothing nice. Something Hawke would have found funny, probably.”

“Your book did not mention that the Champion had a questionable sense of humor,” Cassandra said.

“I always figured it was a coping mechanism, between having Junior for a brother and being a refugee apostate in Kirkwall,” Varric said. “People didn’t know what to make of her, that’s for sure.”

He laughed to himself. “Andraste’s ass, you should’ve seen her at Chateau Haine. She had to cause a distraction –”

“For a Qunari spy, I remember the tale,” Cassandra interrupted. “ _Why_ she assisted the Qun after killing the Arishok was never satisfactorily explained, however.”

“Can’t you just appreciate a good story, Seeker?” Varric asked.

“Not when it makes no sense!”

“I am unfamiliar with your work, Varric,” Solas said. “Where can I find a copy of one of your novels?”

“I have a copy of ‘The Tale of the Champion’ back at Haven,” Varric said. “You or anyone else want to read it, be my guest. I know Flissa has a copy of ‘Hard in Hightown’ lying around somewhere, too.”

Ciri thought she should read it as well. There were too many references to events she didn’t understand flying over her head when Cassandra and Varric got going. Not to mention, Cullen was from Kirkwall. She needed to know exactly why Owain had warned her to be careful around him.

Supper was as hearty and filling as the previous night’s. As the sun went down and the stars rose, a handful more scouts made their way into camp, looking for food and a place to lay their heads.

Ciri retreated to the tent she shared with Cassandra, intent on doing her meditative exercises before it was too close to bedtime. She settled on her bedroll and focused on her magic, pulling it to the surface carefully. A beat, then she let it go. Another beat, and she pulled it up again.

She concentrated it in her unmarked right hand, feeling it push and tingle with the potential waiting to be unleashed. _No._ She was still, calm. This was not a prelude to teleportation, much as her magic might expect otherwise. A dim white glow surrounded her right palm. Her fingers cramped.

She released the magic and tried her left hand. The foreign magic there flared in response, a sharp green gleam that illuminated the beige canvas walls around her. The strange heaviness returned, from the tips of her fingers down to her wrist. Dull, aching, weighed down by heavy stones.

She pushed her magic down her arm to meet the weight at the wrist in an attempt to force it back. The green light flared brighter, then dimmed.

That was probably enough for now. Any more and she risked running too late and sleeping in again. She shook out her marked hand absently. If only she could make the magic there fully hers! The problems it caused in battle weren’t insurmountable, but it was troubling.

She stretched and left the tent, interested to see what the scouts were doing for entertainment tonight.

* * *

Avallac’h sat on a stone bench in an overgrown garden, deftly knotting a fishing net with steady hands. The net took shape in his lap, and each knot was perfectly round, with strange protrusions off the side. They glowed with a humming green aura. At his feet, and above his head, two mirrors reflected each other into eternity.

“They say the Fade reflects the minds of the dreamers,” Avallac’h said. “In truth, it is mutual. They reflect what we show them. We reflect what they show us. And so on, and so on.”

“Who cast the first reflection?” Ciri asked.

“Who indeed,” Avallac’h said. “Who indeed.”

He threw the net up, and it caught the mirror above them. The mirror hung cradled in the fishing net, a sea of glowing green knots shining in its surface and the mirrored surface at their feet.

“Why don’t I remember my dreams sometimes?” Ciri asked.

Avallac’h smiled at her. “What good would come of it?”

“I could understand. I could help.”

“We do not wish you to,” Avallac’h said. “In the fullness of time, perhaps. But not yet.”

“So I won’t remember this one, either,” Ciri said.

“Someday,” Avallac’h told her.

He pulled a thread on the fishing net, and all the glowing green knots broke with a hard snap. The mirror above their heads plunged downward, shattering on the mirror at their feet.

Ciri leaped back as shards flew everywhere.

“Enjoy your night, _Zireael_ ,” Avallac’h said.

The shores of Skellige surrounded her. She was a child again. She ran laughing after Cerys and Hjalmar, the strange dream forgotten.


	11. Skulls and Templars

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There's something odd at the lake camp. The Templars are dealt with, and Ciri needs a moment. They press on to Dennet's farm.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> beta-read by brightspot149 -- thank you!

They left camp on horseback right after breakfast, scouts and soldiers disappearing left and right to see to matters across the afflicted Hinterlands. Malika was there and gone in a blink of an eye, giving Ciri an irreverent salute and leading another scout off back in the direction of the Crossroads. Ritts made her farewells to Tavin and Ciri, bedroll strapped to her back and bow at her side.

Today they made for Dennet’s farm, well northwest of the Dwarfson’s Pass camp. Scouts had been sent ahead to find a camp at a suitable midway point.

“We should take out the Templar stronghold on our way,” Varric said as they left the mouth of the pass.

“Good idea,” Ciri said. “If we eliminate the Templar threat, the mages will pose less of a problem for the locals.”

“It would serve us just as well to eliminate the mages,” Cassandra said. “The fighting would stop with either side removed.”

“The Templars will be easier to find,” Varric countered. “They all but drew us a map. Mages are just in the Witchwood. Somewhere.”

“We deal with the Templars,” Ciri said. “Varric’s right.”

Cassandra looked dissatisfied but didn't protest Ciri's decision. Mother Giselle's voice popped into Ciri's head as they walked along. “ _Is it not? You gave orders to your companions easily enough.”_ She’d run as far as possible from the bonds of ruling, choosing a life of slaying monsters and prying coin from tightfisted aldermen instead. But much as she loathed these people’s title for her, it hadn’t stopped her from using it to get things done.

The Lion Cub of Cintra was creeping in around the corners of her Witcher sensibility. Old lessons learned at her grandparents’ and Mousesack’s knees were hard to forget when she found a need for them.

A light breeze blew down the mountain as they walked back toward the base camp, lifting Ciri’s hair and rustling Solas and Olgierd’s clothes. No fights disrupted their journey, though she noted that rams were thin on the ground. The soldiers had done their job, then. Good.

“Look,” Solas said, holding up a hand. “Do you see that?”

Ciri peered in the direction he pointed. A faint glow of green light peered over the edge of a hill to their left. She sighed.

“We’d best handle that,” she said. “Come on.”

The battle was short but grueling. The wraiths, as Solas had named them, threw a corrosive gas that burned the eyes and lungs, and her silver sword was no better than her steel blade against demons. Finally, breathing heavily, she closed the cracking, grinding rift and turned her attention to the small cabin beside it.

“Do you think there’s anyone in there?” Varric asked.

“There’s only one way to find out,” Ciri said. She walked to the door and knocked firmly.

“Leave me be!” a woman yelled from inside.

“The rift is closed,” Ciri called through the door. “It’s safe to come out now.”

“It’s hardly safe with Templars about!”

“No Templars here,” Varric said. “Just us nobodies.”

The door creaked open, and an elven woman peered out the crack. “Who are you?”

“We are the Inquisition,” Cassandra said. “You must have seen our people in the area.”

“Just the Templars, before the green thing outside my door,” the woman said bitterly. “The bastards killed my husband. He was digging out a stump behind the house. The fools couldn’t tell a shovel from a mage’s staff. ‘Had to be safe,’ they said. They took his wedding ring right off his finger, ‘in case it was magic.’ Thieving liars.”

Ciri’s hand flew to her belt pouch. “This ring?”

She held out the rustic silver ring to the woman, who opened the door wide. “Ivun’s ring!” she gasped, grabbing it from Ciri’s hand. “How?”

“Our people killed some Templars in Dwarfson’s Pass,” Ciri said. “They had this on them.”

“Mythal bless you,” the woman said fiercely. “Or whatever gods you hold to. You’ve done Ferelden a service, killing those beasts.”

She shut the door in their faces with those final words. They looked at each other silently.

“You know,” Varric said after several seconds, “I never liked the Templars in Kirkwall, either.”

“Hmph,” was Cassandra’s contribution.

They left the widow behind, heading back down the hill to the forward camp. The woman’s words strengthened Ciri’s resolve; today they’d deal with the Templars, and put an end to their rampage. They’d chased the mages over the border, but turned to indiscriminate killing and looting of the local peasantry once they arrived. _Someone_ needed to stop them.

Scout Harding had a satisfied smile on her face when they came into the camp. “We delivered the rams to a hunter at the Crossroads,” she said. “And one of our recruits distributed the blankets and clothes our scouts found in the caches. The refugees are better off thanks to the Inquisition.”

“Was there anything else they needed?” Ciri asked.

“Corporal Vale said a trained healer would be useful,” Harding said. “He suggested finding one in Redcliffe, where the rebel mages are.”

Ciri looked at her curiously. “I thought they were in the Witchwood.”

“Nah. The apostates running around fighting Templars and lighting fires aren’t part of the real rebellion. That’s headquartered in Redcliffe, under the Grand Enchanter.”

She had no notion who the Grand Enchanter was, or what made the "real" rebellion any different from the mages she'd seen so far. She'd have to ask Owain or Evelyn. Revealing ignorance of this world to Cassandra or Solas seemed foolish in the extreme.

“We’re taking out the Templar encampment, and moving toward Dennet,” Ciri said. “Should we take the horses?”

Scout Harding grimaced. “Bad idea, Your Worship. There are rifts up by Calenhad’s Foothold, close to Lake Luthias. And the main road is a nightmare with all the fighting. Better go on foot.”

“Understood,” Cassandra said. “We will leave them with you.”

Ciri reluctantly dismounted, handing Zephyr’s reins off to a waiting scout. It might be days until she saw her beloved mare again. Cassandra, Varric, and Solas were far less sentimental about the handoff, though she saw Olgierd sneak in a pat to Ifrit’s nose before they left.

She smiled to herself as they left the camp. _Ifrit_. Now there was a pretentious name for a horse, and a bit on the nose, as well – naming a chestnut after the aggressively destructive genies from the Plane of Fire. But she had no room to throw stones. She’d named her first mare Kelpie, hadn’t she? And now she had Zephyr, loyal and brave and swift as the breeze.

“Calenhad’s Foothold sounds like the better path,” Solas said.

“Depends on your definition of better,” Olgierd said. “Rifts and demons in one direction, mages and Templars in the other.”

“We’ve scouts waiting for us below Lake Luthias,” Ciri reminded them. “And we can’t leave the rifts alone.”

“Demons it is,” Varric said in resignation. “We had demons back in Kirkwall, too, but that was always because some idiot summoned them and lost control, or bound them and left them in a ruin for us to trip over.”

“I wouldn’t worry, Varric,” Solas said. He had a slight smile as he walked ahead of Varric. “They are likely not interested in dwarves.”

Ciri looked at Varric, and he shrugged. “Chuckles has a point. Dwarves don’t dream. Don’t do magic, either.”

That was news. She added it to the things she’d have to ask Owain about when they got back to Haven. She hadn’t thought the dwarves of this world were any different than the ones back home. Every day she uncovered something new, and every day she found more things that were eerily similar.

* * *

Shady trees and a small pond awaited them below Lake Luthias. Somehow the scouts had skirted the rift they’d battled earlier, and they were in the process of erecting more of the sturdy canvas tents. Solas beckoned Olgierd to him with a frown, taking a potion from his knapsack.

“You should have taken a potion yesterday evening,” he said, taking Olgierd’s burned arm in his free hand.

The bandage was torn and dirty from the skirmish at the rift, and the skin peeking through looked raw and red. Solas unwrapped the bandage and handed the potion to Olgierd.

“Drink this. It will speed the healing process.”

Olgierd uncorked the bottle and tipped it to his lips. He grimaced slightly at the taste and handed the empty bottle back. “My thanks.”

“Thanks would be taking better care,” Solas said. “This dressing will have to be changed entirely.”

“I’ll do it,” Ciri said. “Where are the clean bandages and burn salve?”

Solas handed them over out of his knapsack, and Ciri drew Olgierd aside. When they were out of earshot, she muttered to him, “Did you forget you need to take care of your wounds now?”

“That slips my mind from time to time,” he admitted.

“You aren’t immortal anymore,” she told him, slathering on the salve. “An infection can do you in.”

“Wouldn’t that be ignoble,” he murmured as she wrapped the bandages neatly around the burn. “Never fear, dear. I’ve no desire to die.”

“ _Holy Maker!”_

The yelp rang through the camp. Ciri and Olgierd both looked up sharply as a scout crashed through the bushes.

“Your Worship,” the scout said, eyes wide. “You have to see this.”

She tied off the bandage and followed the scout to a strange pole on a cliff overlooking the road. Atop the pole was a human skull, a glittering blue-white gem in the socket of its right eye. A view-hole in the back of its head completed the macabre picture.

“I looked through,” the scout said. “Something... _lit up_.”

Ciri leaned over to look through the hole. At first, she couldn't see what the scout was talking about. Then it moved slightly, and light gleamed at the corner of her eye. She maneuvered the eyes of the skull to face it, and it flared, bright white, down on the main road. Then another, farther along. Then another, and another.

She stepped back, wiping her palms on her hands. Someone had desecrated the dead for this magic. Of all the magic she’d seen in Thedas, somehow this seemed more straightforwardly vile than the Breach that had killed so many at the Conclave.

“Who placed this here?” Cassandra asked as she came up with the others.

“Didn’t we have a talk about this?” Varric said. “Don’t touch the weird shit, Songbird.”

“I’ve no idea who placed this here,” Ciri said. “And it couldn’t be helped, Varric.” She turned to the scout. “You’ll need a map, Scout...”

“Erron, Your Worship.”

“Erron. Something is down there,” Ciri said. “Take people and find out what they are – carefully. If it’s dangerous, don’t touch it. If it’s not, bring it back to Haven for study.”

“Your Worship,” Erron said, bowing. He left to fetch a map.

Ciri looked to Solas. “Have you ever seen anything like this?”

“No, nor have I seen any such device in my journeys through the Fade,” he said. “This is new to me.”

“In your experience, what could it be for?” she asked.

“Illuminating that which was concealed, at a guess," he said. "I'd need time to study it. Time which we don't have if we're to remove the Templars and reach Master Dennet's farm today."

Ciri nodded her understanding. Erron came back, map in hand, and reluctantly took up a position at the eyehole.

“Alert the other scouts to keep an eye out for more poles like this,” Ciri said. “And to mark what they illuminate on the maps.”

“Yes, your worship,” Erron said. He turned from the skull and made two marks on the map, then turned back.

“On to the Templars, then?” she asked her companions.

“There’s no reason to wait,” Solas said.

They made their way from the camp, heading down the narrow, shaded path toward the main road. The clanging of steel and the sound of shouting echoed ahead. She heard a cry of rage, suddenly cut short. The smell of smoke was thick in the air.

The steep path spilled out onto the road, and they held still for a moment. No one had seen them yet. Templars warred with mages up and down the bloody, muddy thoroughfare. A way up the road, closer to the Crossroads, huts burned. Templars prowled the broken ramparts of a damaged fort farther down.

“Look at this,” Cassandra said in disapproval. “The apostates have gone mad with power.”

“The Templars aren’t looking any better here,” Varric said.

“We stick together,” Ciri ordered them. “Solas, cast your barrier. Anyone who attacks us, we fight. We don’t stop until we reach the Templar encampment.”

“Our pace?” Cassandra asked.

“Swift.”

Solas threw out a hand. Ciri felt the cool, dry-water sensation of the barrier spell fall over her. “ _Move_.”

Cassandra took the lead, Ciri and Olgierd flanking her. Solas fell in behind, and Varric took up the rear. They fell into a light jog, weapons out and ready. They were halfway to the ruined fort before anyone saw them – a mage and a sellsword.

“ _Hey!_ ”

The mage’s spell slid right off the barrier. Varric’s crossbow punched a hole through the mage’s throat.

“Keep going,” Ciri urged as the sellsword ran at them.

Solas raised a hand and called down lightning, stopping the sellsword in his tracks with an agonized cry.

They pressed on. Solas needed to reapply the barrier twice, and Ciri’s sword was slick with blood by the time they made it, panting and only slightly injured, to the Templar’s encampment.

Two fully armored Templars with tower shields guarded the mouth of the entrance. They hadn’t been seen yet. Ciri grabbed Solas and Olgierd, a plan forming in her mind.

“That lightning,” she said quietly. “Can you make it strike two people at once?”

“More, if necessary,” he said. “Plate armor is an excellent target.”

“And while they’re shocked,” Ciri said to Olgierd, “you and I –”

“Before they can recover,” Olgierd finished her thought.

She nodded. They crept closer, and Solas extended a hand, then jerked it sharply. Lightning streaked down from the clear sky and struck the Templars. They let out pained groans, jerking stiffly in their plate armor.

Ciri disappeared from Solas’ side and reappeared behind one of the Templars, her jeweled dagger drawn. She thrust it hilt-deep in the gap between the helmet and the gorget. Blood rushed over her hand, and he dropped like a stone at her feet. A clang to her right let her know that Olgierd’s Templar was dealt with as well.

“The way is clear,” she called back softly to their waiting companions.

They made their way on quiet feet deeper into the compound, pulling back at the sight of a patrolling archer. Solas raised a hand, and Ciri shook her head. She nodded to Varric, who raised his crossbow and let off a bolt that went straight through the archer’s eye. He fell silently, and they continued on.

“More archers,” Varric whispered, pointing.

Ciri exchanged a look with Olgierd and Solas. Templar abilities would be difficult to fight through if the Templars saw weakness and pressed the advantage. It sounded like they wouldn’t be able to take them out one at a time. She’d have to fight straight as a warrior, not rely on her Source magic.

She nodded to Cassandra, who raised her shield and rushed in. She and Olgierd followed.

An arrow flew at her, and she swiped it aside with _Zireael_. Just as she’d been taught. She lunged at the archer and cut him down. Another fell to Varric’s crossbow. Cassandra smashed one to the ground with her shield and plunged her sword through his chest. Olgierd cleaved the last one nearly in two with his saber.

“They’ll have noticed that,” Ciri said. “Come on.”

Further in they went. Three Templars awaited them, armored in plate and armed with kite shields and longswords. “Betrayal!” one of them cried. “Who told of our location?”

Varric’s response was a shot to the gap in the armor between the abdomen and the thigh. “Maybe don’t leave your invitations to your secret hideout lying around,” he grunted as the Templar staggered, falling with a wail.

Ciri leaped to attack. A thrust past the shield, a parry of the incoming blow, then a somersault out the way and a strike at the back of the knee. He yelled and staggered, striking out with his shield. She spun out of range with a pirouette – just like the gauntlet back at Kaer Morhen. She darted back in with a hard blow to his gorget, and the armor crumpled beneath _Zireael_ ’s strike. He fell choking at her feet.

The fighting around her died off, and she knelt beside him and removed his helmet. He was young, not much older than Ciri, with fading acne scars and a wispy black beard. His eyes met hers in pain and fright as he wheezed for breath. She’d fractured his throat. He coughed, and blood spattered his lips.

Olgierd came to her side. “Here,” he said, patting her shoulder. “You needn’t see this. Varric?”

“Yeah.” Varric took her by the elbow and helped her to her feet, leading her off.

Behind her, she heard the sound of a blade cutting through flesh, and the wheezing gasps cut off abruptly.

“You okay?” Varric asked.

Ciri shook her head. “I’m fine. Come on. There’s another section to clear.”

The final section of the camp held but one Templar, armed and armored like the two at the entrance. From his prowess, Ciri took him to be a senior Templar. Still, numbers – and skill – won the day, and when he fell, she took a moment to rest. She sat on a table by a tent, looking herself over for injuries, while Cassandra, Varric, and Solas stripped the camp of valuables for their scouts to take later.

Olgierd sat beside her. After a moment, he said, “It’s not weakness, being unable to slit a man’s throat.”

“I know,” she said.

“You’ve a good heart,” he continued.

“Olgierd,” she said. “Thank you. For ending his suffering. I’m no good at that. I try, but straightforward battles are where my strength lies. You did the right thing.”

“And yet, you’re not happy,” he observed.

“I thought I’d just be out of the way with the Trevelyans while Triss managed the mages,” Ciri said. “All of this – a holy title, Fade rifts, constant battles against mages and Templars – it’s a bit much. And killing people takes its toll. I hunt monsters, not men.”

“Do you want to leave?” he asked. “Say the word.”

“No,” she sighed. “They need my help, and if it’s in my power to give it, then I will.”

“I must say that’s a relief to hear,” Olgierd said. “For I’ve no wish to return to the Continent any time soon.”

“You like it here?” Ciri asked.

“It could do with less fanaticism, to be sure,” he said, “but I like it well enough.”

Cassandra came up, brow furrowed in irritation. “Are you ready to leave? We’ve been over the camp twice. None remain. The scouts will move in to claim it shortly.”

“Yes,” Ciri said. “Let’s press on to Dennet’s farm.”

The main road was quiet when they emerged from the compound. They’d killed more people on their charge up to the Templar hideout than Ciri had realized. With luck, things would calm down in the region. Now all that was left were the mages in the Witchwood – unless the scouts happened upon something else that demanded their attention.

They forded the stream dividing the road from the farmland on foot. The bridge had broken, its slats twisted and fallen into the water below. As signs went, it wasn’t a good one. Still, no Templars, nor any mages, awaited them on the other side.

Low snarling did, however. Four wolves, an eerie light in their eyes, crested a low hill, growling, and leaped at them, teeth bared. Ciri drew her sword once more.

In the aftermath, Solas shook his head. “These wolves seemed possessed. Their actions were not their own.”

“Something to look into later,” Ciri told him.

At last, they reached farmland, a small collection of cabins and huts surrounded by fenced-in pastures. Ahead she saw a barn and some horses, and a two-story house. Farther afield, she saw strange horned animals, massive and heavily furred.

“I sense a relic of my people,” Solas said abruptly.

“Another artifact?” Ciri asked.

He nodded and led them to an abandoned cabin. _A strange place for an Elvhen artifact_ , Ciri thought. She brushed the top with her hand, and it lit up with a steady green aura.

 _Fishing nets_. The thought flickered through her mind, there and gone in an instant.

“Let’s see how Master Dennet has been dealing with this chaos,” Cassandra said.

Master Dennet seemed to be doing fine, in fact. He was a tough old man, bald and brown with a thick white beard, and he looked them up and down before saying, “So you’re the Inquisition, ey? Hear you’re trying to bring order back. High time someone did. Don’t know what to make of you, though. Word on you is strange.”

“Oh?” Ciri said.

“Heard one tale that had you as good King Alistair’s long-lost sister,” Dennet said. “Another as a bastard Valmont. Best one said you came from the halla riders of ancient times.”

 _Maxwell’s rumors strike again – this time with Leliana steering them_.

“Rumors are more trouble than they’re worth,” Ciri said.

“That’s the truth!” Dennet agreed. “Name’s Dennet. I was horsemaster for Redcliffe for over thirty years. I hear the Inquisition is looking for mounts.”

“Better a horsemaster than mounts,” Ciri said, “but it’s not my call. Can you help us?”

“Not at the moment,” he said. “I can’t just send a hundred of the finest horses in Ferelden down the road like you’d send a letter. Bandits would be on them like flies on shit. You’ll have mounts when I know they won’t end up as some cutthroat’s breakfast.”

 _A hundred more horses? In Haven?_ Ciri shook her head. “What do you need?”

"The wolves are a problem," he said. "Talk to my wife, Elaina. And my man Bronn has our plans to deal with the bandits. Listen. Until then, you deserve better than whatever knock-kneed plow nag they gave you."

“There’s no need,” Ciri said. “I have Zephyr – my mare. She’s an excellent horse.”

“Well, good,” he said. “Take care of her, and she’ll take care of you, Inquisition.”

They left Dennet to his business and sought out his wife. She was curt and no-nonsense, directing them farther down the creek to the wolves’ lair. Bronn, the man in charge of Dennet’s guards, had plans for watchtowers to deter bandits.

“Both can be delegated,” Ciri said as they walked off to a likely spot for an Inquisition camp.

"These rifts can't," Solas said. "And I would like to deal with the wolves personally if that's not too much trouble."

“Which first?” Ciri asked. “Wolves or rifts?”

“Camp,” Cassandra said. “The scouts will catch up with us soon, and then we’ll have a place to rest should things go wrong.”

“No argument here,” Varric said. He took a seat on a log and stretched his short legs out in front of him. “Take a load off, Songbird. Can someone get a fire going? This day has been too long.”

Ciri sat beside him. It _had_ been a very long day, and it was only half over. She looked forward to returning to Haven when all of this was over, and to taking a long hot bath.

* * *

They made camp by the creek on the outskirts of the farmland. Scouts had arrived not long after they'd started the fire, and now it was another bustling Inquisition camp. Battle-weary and sore, Ciri stripped off her armor in her tent and rubbed her strained muscles with an aching hand.

She’d finally experienced one of the despair demons. Solas had been right – she knew it when she saw it. The being shrieked and blew an icy wind from its gaping mouth as it flew about the battlefield, sapping their will and drawing misery to the surface whenever it got too close.

That had been a tough fight. She didn’t look forward to seeing more of them.

The wolves had been possessed, or something like it. Enthralled, or ensorcelled, by a large terror demon. They’d needed to slay the whole pack in the end, but Solas had been satisfied by that outcome. Even in death, they were free.

Freshly dressed in a clean lambswool shirt and leather trousers, Ciri ducked out of the tent. She looked for a familiar face and found one in Scout Erron.

“Scout Erron,” she called. “What news of the strange artifact?”

“We found these strange shards, Your Worship,” he said. “It looked like they’d been lying there forever, but no one had noticed them.”

“Perhaps the magic of the skull was necessary to see them,” Solas mused, “or they were not fully in the physical world until seen through the skull’s eyes.”

Erron shuddered. “Either way, ser, we collected them, and they’re on their way to Haven for study. Reports say that two more skulls were spotted, and they lit up other shards. We’re keeping an eye out for more.”

“And the Templar encampment?”

“We left a squad of soldiers to hold it,” Erron said. “They won’t dig their way back in there. Pried them out of Fort Connor, too. Found more red lyrium in there. It looked like they’d been camping around it.”

“ _Shit_ ,” Varric said, soft but vehement.

“You know the orders for red lyrium,” Ciri said.

“Aye. We’ve boarded it up tight. No one gets in.”

“Good. And one of you needs to speak with Bronn about building watchtowers in the area,” Ciri said. “We’ll not get any horses out of Dennet otherwise.”

“Yes, Your Worship,” he said, bowing. “We’ll get the job done.”

Hoofbeats from the south caught her attention, and she looked beyond the camp’s edge to see a rider on Varric’s mount galloping hard in their direction. The scout rode into the camp, pulling firmly on the reins to bring the borrowed horse to a stop between the tents.

“Message for you, Your Worship!” the scout called out. “Message from Haven!”

The scout handed over the note, and Ciri read it and sighed. “Back to Haven,” she told her companions. “There’s an issue in Val Royeaux with the grand clerics that needs addressing. They have more to tell us when we return.”

“What of the apostates in the Witchwood?” Cassandra asked.

“A problem for another day,” Ciri said. She thanked the scout and went in search of food.

Supper was another hot bowl of mutton stew with root vegetables. Ciri ate mechanically, exhausted from the day of almost nonstop fighting. Here, ensconced in a busy camp, shoulder to shoulder with Olgierd and Varric, she could almost forget her worries.

Tomorrow was another day, one she hoped would see her sword stay sheathed. The Witchwood’s inhabitants would keep for another trip to the Hinterlands. On the morrow, they’d make for Haven.


	12. Schisms and Talks

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ciri is pulled into a strategy meeting over an unexpected complication with the Chantry. Olgierd has a pleasant conversation with Josephine and a less pleasant one with Cullen. Owain makes an appearance, and Ciri has another strange dream.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> beta-read by brightspot149 -- thank you!

Ciri knew she was in Haven once more when Zephyr’s hooves crunched through snow. She shivered and dismounted, leading her mare to the newly expanded horse enclosure. She’d only just removed the saddle when Cassandra’s hand came down on her shoulder.

“There’s no time to waste,” she said. “Leave this to the groom. We must see what this summons back to Haven was about.”

Ciri faltered, looking at the groom in question. He was young but seemed to know his way around horses. "She'll need to be brushed down well," she told him, "and give her oats with her hay. We've been riding a long way."

“I’ll see to it, Your Worship,” the groom assured her.

“I’ll bring your stuff back to the chantry,” Varric said. “You’d better get going before the Seeker runs off without you.”

Cassandra did look impatient. Ciri gave Zephyr a final pat and left the others behind. She followed Cassandra past the training field, waving to Owain as she went. He was easy to spot, standing head and shoulders taller than everyone else. _I’ll need to speak with him soon_ , she thought. _Questions are beginning to pile up._

The walk up to the chantry was quiet. She – and everyone else she’d traveled with – was tired from all the fighting in the Hinterlands, and from the four-day journey to return to Haven. All she wished for was a hot bath and a nap. The last thing she wanted was to be swept into a meeting with the Inquisition’s leadership to work out yet another problem.

Leliana, Josephine, and Cullen awaited them in the room at the back of the chantry. The large table with the map of Ferelden and Orlais seemed slightly changed since last she’d seen it. Several pewter markers dotted it – a stylized key, a raven, and an upraised fist.

“The scouts sent reports ahead,” Leliana said as the door closed behind them. “You’ve done well. Locals in the Hinterlands have volunteered to join our cause after seeing the good you’ve done.”

“Did Ritts make it back safely?” Ciri asked.

Leliana seemed to soften a little at the question. “Yes. It was good of you to send her to us. We have her on light duties for now. When we send her out again, it won’t be to the Hinterlands. She requested a different assignment.”

“My concern is these Templars,” Cullen said. “Did you not try to recruit them? Would they not stand down?”

Ciri and Cassandra exchanged glances, and Ciri said, “They didn’t stop at killing mages, Commander. We heard from a widow that they killed and robbed her husband as he worked their farm.”

“The Hand speaks truly,” Cassandra said. “The chaos there was unimaginable, and the mages were not the only ones at fault.”

Cullen shook his head. “A shame. Templars are disciplined warriors. We could use their skills here with the Inquisition.”

 _Was he not listening?_ “I saw no discipline in the Hinterlands,” Ciri said. “Only violence and brutality. The locals suffered because the Templars wouldn’t allow the mages the sanctuary the king and queen promised them.”

“Whatever the case, it’s done,” Leliana said, cutting off further argument from Cullen. “And we have other matters to discuss.”

“Yes, this business with the grand clerics,” Cassandra said. “What has happened?”

“A faction led by Grand Cleric Agnesot of Lydes has broken with the Inquisition on the grounds of heresy,” Leliana said. “A letter arrived, demanding we renounce the Hand and send her to Lydes for questioning, and that we disband the Inquisition, claiming that Divine Justinia was misled in her final hours by a heretic and a liar.”

Cassandra grasped the hilt of her sword as if to strike down the grand cleric all the way from Haven. "We will not!"

Leliana gave Cassandra a cool look. “Of course not. You will go to Val Royeaux to meet with Grand Cleric Oudine of Montsimmard. Chancellor Roderick has ridden ahead to secure lodgings.”

“It is critical that we not lose Chantry support,” Josephine told Ciri. “Grand Cleric Oudine is a political creature, but she greatly respected the Divine. You must show her that her legacy is in good hands.”

“How?” Ciri asked.

“Be modest, but do not shy away from owning your good deeds,” Josephine said. “If she asks you if you believe you were chosen by the Maker, be circumspect in your response.”

“That leads me to another question,” Leliana said. “Do you believe in the Maker, Lady Ciri?”

“Do I worship your god? No,” she said honestly. “I accept the possibility that He may exist, just as any other god might.”

The silence that followed was awkward. Leliana nodded slowly.

“It would be best if you did not mention that to the grand cleric,” Josephine said.

“I won’t,” Ciri said. “I know when to keep my mouth shut.”

“If there’s nothing more, we should rest before we leave tomorrow,” Cassandra said.

“There are a few matters,” Josephine said. She patted a small stack of papers on the edge of the map. “Reports from the Hinterlands that arrived ahead of you, matters of concern for our advisory council, and a missive from our Dalish scout’s clan that needs to be addressed.”

“What did Clan Lavellan have to say?” Ciri asked.

“They accuse us of holding Mahanon and an elf named Ellana hostage,” Leliana said. “They request assurance that they’re with us willingly. Charter has informed me that Ellana is dead – is that so?”

“Yes,” Ciri said. “I saw her in the temple before it exploded.”

“We’ve been debating how to respond,” Josephine said. “I thought to send one of our elven scribes with a message. Leliana had the idea to send elven agents with supplies the clan might need as a show of good faith.”

“Both sound reasonable,” Ciri said. “Cullen?”

“My troops can deliver news of Lavellan’s safety,” he said. “A show of force would make it clear that the Inquisition is to be taken seriously.”

 _Bloodshed_. She remembered being caught between Scoia’tael and human soldiers as a child while traveling with Geralt. That...that was a terrible idea.

“Of the three of you, who has actually had dealings with Dalish elves?” she asked.

“I have,” Leliana said. “I traveled with the Hero of Ferelden during the Blight. She negotiated peace between a clan of Dalish elves and a pack of cursed werewolves. I learned much during our weeks with the clan.”

“Then we use Leliana’s plan,” Ciri said.

Leliana took a pewter marker of a raven mid-flight and placed it somewhere in the Free Marches. “It shall be done quickly.”

“What are the other issues?” Ciri asked.

“Scouts pushed into Hafter’s Woods and discovered evidence of a mercenary operation – lyrium smugglers is our guess,” Leliana said. “They’ve taken over an abandoned villa, and there are too many of them for our people in the Hinterlands to handle effectively.”

“The Valo-Kas mercenaries have been restless,” Cullen suggested. “Their antics on the field are distracting my troops.”

Ciri remembered them: the horned warriors who stood as tall or even taller than Owain. Herah had seemed professional in the brief moment they’d met. If they were causing problems here in Haven out of boredom, then giving them work was a good idea. “Let’s do that, then. Anything else?”

“A memorial for Divine Justinia at Highever Castle," Leliana said. "The Inquisition is invited to send representation. A Ferelden nobleman requests we come to drive refugees from his lands. The Cadash Dasher is threatening violence unless we turn over Scout Malika. I wish to investigate Serault. And these shards you discovered in the Hinterlands must be sent to a trusted mage for analysis."

Ciri took a deep breath. _One at a time._ “Tell me about Highever.”

* * *

Olgierd knocked on the door frame to Josephine’s office. She looked up from her paperwork and smiled.

“Messere Olgierd,” she said. “Do come in. Did the robes fit?”

He’d suspected they’d come from her office. He’d arrived back at the cabin to find two new robes cut much like his own lying across his bed, the scent of blackcurrant blossoms, cardamom, and vanilla lingering on the deep blue silk. The styling was slightly different, though. A stiff, sharp collar, geometric embroidery, and fox fur trim were the greatest changes.

“Beautifully so,” he told her. “Nevarran, I take it?”

“And Ferelden,” she said. “Inspired by your own unique mode of dress.”

“They haven’t any runes, have they?” he asked.

“Runes?”

He gestured to his robe. “This is armor, Lady Josephine. A runewright enchanted all my robes.”

Josephine’s eyes widened, and she frowned. “Ah. I should have realized a warrior would not go into battle so lightly armored. Forgive the oversight, messere. We don’t have a smith capable of the enchantments you wish – not yet, at least.”

“Nay, there’s nothing to forgive,” he said. “They’re beautiful clothes. I’ll gladly wear them.”

She smiled at that. “Excellent. As they say, clothes make the man, and we need yours to tell your story for you.”

“As yours do?” he asked, gesturing to her cloth-of-gold blouse and sleeveless blue coat. “Antivan, I assume.”

“You assume correctly,” she said, running a hand across her broad leather belt. “The fabrics emphasize the richness of Antiva’s mercantile trade, and the cut of the coat is a nod to our seafaring traditions. The Montilyets have roots in both, though in truth my family originated in Orlais.”

“Do you still do much trade in Orlais?” he asked.

Her pretty smile faltered. “Ah. We have other trading partners, currently.”

A sore subject, then. He let it be. “Perhaps you might help me find a certain book,” he said instead. “The Seeker spoke of a book Varric wrote, ‘The Tale of the Champion.’ Ciri has his copy, but I’ve an interest in reading it myself.”

She pulled open a desk drawer in answer and handed him a hefty book, blushing faintly. “It’s quite good,” she said. “I’m on my second read of it.”

“My thanks,” he said. “I’ll return it as I found it.”

She held onto the book for a moment, keeping him from pulling away. “Messere Olgierd – some characters in his book do not come off very well. Some characters who are with us in the Inquisition. I ask that you keep an open mind.”

He held her gaze. "I'm not one to judge another for their past if that's your concern."

Josephine let the book go and sat back. “I’m relieved to hear it. Too many make assumptions and snap judgments, never looking past another’s differences to find common ground.”

Her words pricked at him. His bitterness and jealousy toward the prince who had almost married Iris – the prince he’d accidentally cursed in a fit of rage – had brewed within him into hatred toward all of Ofier as his heart slowly hardened. It was only in the aftermath, free to feel again, that the full measure of his folly was known to him. Hatred was a useless emotion.

“A weakness too many fall prey to,” he said. “You’ve wisdom to see past it.”

She drew herself up proudly. “Each successful treaty, political marriage, alliance, and contract is founded on the cornerstone of diplomacy. Many will look at the Inquisition and see Orlesians, Nevarrans, Antivans, Fereldens, and Marchers – humans, elves, dwarves and Vashoth – and anticipate chaos. It is our duty to prove them wrong.”

“You’ve a tall order to fill,” Olgierd said.

“But a vital one!" she said, hazel eyes bright. "Think of what the Inquisition could be. We could improve the lives of so many people across Thedas. Our cause need not be limited to closing the Breach. We must look beyond our wants to see how best to serve the people."

He chuckled. “And how did the Inquisition find someone so selfless to be its ambassador, Lady Montilyet?”

She blushed. “I – well. Leliana recruited me. Now that is quite the tale. But one for another time, I think. There is much work to do before the day is done.”

“I’ll leave you to it,” Olgierd said. “Lady Josephine.”

“Messere Olgierd.”

He left Josephine and her cozy office behind, walking briskly to the doors leading out to Haven. The warmth of the tavern called to him. Perhaps he’d have time to settle in with a pint and his borrowed book before they departed for Orlais tomorrow morning.

“Ser! Von Everec, a word?”

Olgierd stopped and cast a glance behind him. Cullen Rutherford, the tired-looking Templar from Kirkwall, approached with a hard look in his eyes.

“Cassandra spoke to me about your magic use,” Rutherford said. “She’s concerned that certain unorthodox techniques of yours may be–”

Olgierd sighed. “No, Commander. I’m no ‘abomination.’”

“Signs of a maleficar,” he finished. “Blood magic, or demon summoning. The truth, ser. What did you do to gain such strange powers?”

Olgierd looked closely at Rutherford. The man had his hand on the hilt of his sword, and his eyes, though tired, were dark and flinty. Rutherford shifted his weight, better distributing his balance in case he needed to draw his sword and strike him down.

What would the Templar do if told the truth? Run him through? He’d not survive that, not anymore. Brand him like their Tranquil? He had no desire to find out what that would do to him. This would be a delicate path to walk.

“I’ve withstood Silences and Smites alike,” Olgierd said. “No demon resides within me.”

“I know,” Rutherford said.

“Remember that,” Olgierd said, “for you ask of demons. And there is a demon in my story.”

Rutherford’s hand tightened on the hilt. “Go on.”

"As a young man, I wished to win back the hand of my beloved, and to live like there was no tomorrow," he said. "A demon heard my wishes and bound me to them. Granted them, but twisted. Thus I lived, yet could not die. I wed my beloved, yet could not feel anything."

“You – how? And the demon?” Rutherford demanded.

“Such magic leaves a mark,” Olgierd said. “For good or ill. As for the demon, it was defeated by Ciri’s father, long after my wife had passed.”

“But you are free from its – its torment,” Rutherford said.

“I doubt I shall ever see it again,” Olgierd said.

Rutherford nodded. He was paler than usual, and his mind seemed to be elsewhere, on some deeply unpleasant memory. “Desire demons are dangerous creatures. Anyone can fall prey to their tricks. I’ll tell Cassandra your tale. Thank you for trusting me, ser.”

Olgierd nodded. “It’s no trouble.”

“Understand that you will be watched, however,” Rutherford cautioned him. “An apostate with such a past is not something we can overlook.”

“I’d expect no less from something called the ‘Inquisition,’” Olgierd said dryly. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a book to read.”

Rutherford’s eyes dropped to the book in his hands, and a grimace crossed his face. He nodded and dropped his hand from his sword. “I shan’t keep you, then.”

He left Rutherford and the quiet chantry behind, pushing open the doors and walking out into Haven’s cold, windy air.

 _Maleficar_. Demon summoning and blood magic. Best they never find out how well-versed he was in Goetia, and how many demons needed blood to be summoned on the Continent. Better still that they never learn he sought out Gaunter O’Dimm deliberately. He’d left his past on the Continent. It would stay there.

* * *

Varric had left Ciri his copy of ‘The Tale of the Champion’ on her bed for her to find when the meeting let out. Fresh from a bath, book in hand, she went in search of the Trevelyan siblings. Whichever she found first would do to answer her questions – and she had many.

Maxwell wasn’t in the cabin, nor in the tavern. Olgierd was there, tucked away in a corner with his own copy of Varric’s book and a pint of ale. She waved, but he didn’t see her, engrossed as he was in the story. She left him behind, smiling. They’d talk later.

Evelyn was in the healing tent, as usual. Two apprentices scurried to follow her instructions as she directed a stream of warm white magic into an ugly gash in a recruit’s side. The recruit’s partner dithered at the bedside, bloody sword dangling from nerveless fingers.

“Can’t talk now,” Evelyn called over. “Find me later?”

Ciri nodded and left the tent.

Luckily, Owain was right where she’d seen him last, drilling recruits on the training field. She wove her way through the tight formations to stand at his side.

“They’re looking better,” she said.

“They’re dedicated, I’ll give them that,” he said, looking out at the men and women exchanging blows in unison. “Still not where they should be, but they’ll get there.”

“Do you have time to talk?” she asked.

“Time for you? Of course,” he said. “Do we need privacy?”

“That would be best.”

Owain beckoned Raúl to take his place, and he sauntered over with a wink and a smile. “Lady Ciri! You wouldn’t believe the things I’ve heard about you lately.”

“Likely not,” she agreed. “How is Haven treating you?”

He made a face. “The food is terrible, their ale is weak, and their Chant is unceasing. The cold has frozen their women through – their men, too, come to think of it. I’ll never be warm again.”

“Poor Ser Raúl,” Owain started.

“Yes, yes, Rona has already had at me,” Raúl said. “You could show more sympathy, you know. You’re a giant. You have to eat more of their mutton and porridge. Aren’t you suffering, _Lord_ Ser Owain?”

“Would there be a point to complaining?” Owain asked.

Raúl shrugged. “Commiseration?”

“Commiserate with Maxwell,” Owain said. “He’s perfectly willing to say that Haven’s a freezing dump. Now if you don’t mind, Ciri needs me.”

“Leaving so soon, _bellisima_?” Raúl asked. “Ah well. Come back again. You always liven things up.”

They left him barking orders at the recruits, wandering back through the gates and up Haven’s dirt path to the Trevelyans’ cabin that they shared with Olgierd. Ciri nodded to Solas as they entered, seeing him lingering by his cabin door, as always.

With the door shut behind them, Owain took a seat on one of the beds and gestured for her to join him. She sat on the bed across from him, her knees almost brushing his.

“Do you have more questions about Thedas?” he asked. “I’m not as knowledgeable as Maxwell or Evelyn, but my education was fairly broad before going to Starkhaven, and the Order doesn’t allow for ignorance in its Templars.”

“A few,” she said. “Varric said something odd when we were in the Hinterlands. Dwarves don’t dream?”

“No,” Owain said, looking surprised. “I take it that’s not the case where you’re from.”

“I’ve never asked a dwarf about their dreams,” Ciri said. “But something so specific would have been known. Why don’t they dream?”

“That’s a mystery,” he said. “I’m sure dwarves and mages alike have their theories, but I don’t know anything about it. Sorry.”

“No, it’s fine,” she said. “I was also curious about the people here. You’ve Vashoth – or Qunari – and we don’t. But I haven’t heard anything of gnomes or halflings. Are they not a part of your world?”

He shook his head. “Grandmother Iori told us stories of the gnomes of Tir Tochair, and of the halfling farmers of the North. That’s all they ever were to us, though. Stories. It’s a shame. Gnome smiths – they sound incredible.”

“Alchemists and jewelers, too,” Ciri said. “They created wonders in their day. Still do, though the time of the swordsmith has passed, sadly.”

“I’d like to see it,” Owain said wistfully. “I used to go sit in front of the portal as a boy after one of Grandmother’s tales and just wish for it to open.”

“Perhaps you might come with me when this is all over,” Ciri said. “Just for a visit.”

“I’d like that,” Owain said, the corners of his deep blue eyes crinkling as he smiled.

Ciri looked away, cheeks warm. “Anyway. You warned me about Cullen, but he seems fine. His emotions are a bit more erratic than most, and I can’t say his advice in the War Room is entirely sound, but he’s not prejudiced. At least, no more than the average Templar.”

Owain laughed a little. “Ciri, the average Templar is quite prejudiced. But I’m glad he’s not as big a prick as he seemed from reading that book.”

“Was he so bad?” she asked.

“Bad enough that I worried for Evelyn,” he said. “Still, I hope you’re right. It’s been years since the Chantry exploded in Kirkwall. Maybe that’s time enough for Rutherford to get his head out of his ass.”

"You don't like him, do you?"

“It’s not him I don’t like,” Owain said. “It’s Templars who abuse their power, who treat mages cruelly or look the other way when their brothers in arms use their authority to hurt their charges. We’re supposed to be protectors. Or _were_ , anyway. I did leave, after all.”

Ciri nodded. She could understand that. Geralt held a special contempt for Witchers from the School of the Cat, for all that he still considered them his brothers on the Path. And Lady Yennefer had no love for many members of the Lodge of Sorceresses, current or late.

Owain nudged her knee with his. “Come on. What else is there?”

"We're to go to Val Royeaux tomorrow," Ciri said. "A grand cleric split with the Chantry – she and her people are in Lydes, wherever that is. They're demanding I turn myself over for 'questioning.'"

“Don’t,” Owain said immediately.

“Of course not,” Ciri said. “I’ve no interest in dying for your world’s religion.”

“That thing Olgierd said before you left for the Hinterlands – what was it? ‘Holy fire, enlighten–”

“‘– Burn, and cleanse,’” Ciri finished. “The chant of the Church of the Eternal Fire back home. The crowds would say it after a pyre burned out. They burned sorceresses and sorcerers, alchemists, nonhumans – it was an ugly time.”

“No wonder you hate the title,” Owain said. “The Chantry must bring back unpleasant memories.”

“The people as individuals are fine,” Ciri said. “But no, I’ve no love for your religion.”

“I can’t blame you.” He frowned. “If this grand cleric is in Lydes, why are you going to Val Royeaux?”

“We’re to meet with a different grand cleric, cement the Chantry’s support of the Inquisition,” Ciri said. “If I could send Maxwell in my place, I’d do it in a heartbeat.”

“I’m no Maxwell, but I’ll do my best to help,” Owain said. “What do you know about Orlais?”

Ciri shrugged. “It’s a nation your niece plans to conquer.”

He laughed at that. “And I wish her luck. Here. I’ll tell you what I know of Orlais’ politics. Then I’ll fetch us some supper from the tavern and you can read your book in peace before you have to leave tomorrow.”

“More mutton stew,” Ciri said. “Don’t tell Raúl, but I actually enjoy it.”

“So do I,” he admitted. “Now, Empress Celene Valmont is the current ruler of Orlais. She’s locked in a civil war with her cousin, Grand Duke Gaspard de Chalons….”

* * *

Ciri read late into the night, unable to set Varric’s book down. She left the cabin in Owain’s borrowed cloak to keep from freezing as she returned to the chantry. The story seemed incredible in the truest sense of the word. The plot was too neat in places. In others, it was too improbable. But it had been a gripping tale, and she had much to ask Varric when the opportunity arose.

A flicker of light in a tent outside the chantry caught her eye. Her ears picked up the murmur of two low voices, both urgent. She recognized one as Leliana’s, and she made her way over, shivering.

“– Hoped my hunch was wrong,” Leliana was saying to a scout.

“You knew him well?” the scout replied.

“Not as well as I thought. Show me the reports.”

Ciri slipped into the tent unnoticed, lingering behind their turned backs. _What is going on?_

Leliana flipped through the report the scout handed over and sighed. “There were so many questions surrounding Farrier’s death. Did he think we wouldn’t notice? He’s killed Farrier...one of my best agents. And knows where the others are.” She looked down and shook her head. “You know what must be done. Make it clean, painless if you can. We were friends once.”

“Wait,” Ciri said. “What’s this about?”

“Butler, Your Worship,” the scout said. “He’s turned.”

“You can’t just kill him,” Ciri said. Her mind raced through the possibilities.

“He betrayed us!” Leliana snapped. “He murdered my agent! I condemn _one man_ to save dozens.”

“Think, Leliana,” Ciri said. “Why did he turn? Money? Blackmail? Loyalty to a different cause? Who pulls his strings? If you kill him, you’ll never know. Butler is a piece of a bigger puzzle.”

The sharp anger faded some from Leliana’s eyes. She looked at Ciri speculatively, then turned to the scout. “Bring Butler in – alive.”

The scout bowed and left silently.

“Now if you’re happy, I have more work to do,” Leliana said in dismissal.

Ciri left the cold tent for the warmth of the chantry and her bed. There weren’t many hours left to sleep, and she hoped to be at least somewhat rested before their journey tomorrow.

* * *

She stood on a high peak, wind whipping her clothes and hair. Avallac’h stood beside her. All around her, mountains rose, their tops disappearing into the clouds and their bases far out of sight below.

“What need have dwarves of dreams?” Avallac’h asked.

“To – to experience the Fade,” Ciri said. “Dreams are normal, aren’t they? Everyone dreams.”

Avallac’h smiled indulgently, as if she’d missed something. “Everyone? Not dwarves.”

“But why?”

“Again, what need have dwarves of dreams?”

“You tell me,” she said. “I’m the stranger here.”

He shook his head and looked at her marked hand. “You’re trying magic, _Zireael_. Interesting. Tell me; what have you found?”

“I’ve not tried much,” she said. “Just Solas’ exercises.”

“And?”

“And my hand seems heavy,” she said. “Pinned in place when I teleport.”

Avallac’h raised an eyebrow, smiling that infuriating smile.

“What? What have I forgotten?”

“If you forgot, it was not important,” he said.

“I suppose you’re right,” she agreed reluctantly.

“You have learned much, _Zireael_ ,” Avallac’h said. “And still you have more to learn. Come. It is time you slept. You have a long day tomorrow.”

“Wait!” she said. “The shards we found. That skull. What are they?”

“The skull? A new plaything by creative mages,” Avallac’h said. “The shards? I told you earlier, _Zireael_. The Elvhen wished for glory. We showed them wonders.”

She blinked, and she stood in a meadow, a skinny child outside Goldencheeks’ hut. There was Geralt, standing on the other side! She ran to him, heart full to bursting with relief and amazement, and he ran to her, catching her in his arms.

All was well, and all was forgotten yet again.


	13. Games and Masks

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ciri and Olgierd learn a little more about Kirkwall. Rumors reach Val Royeaux ahead of them, muddying the waters. Everyone seems to want a piece of Ciri's attention. Lucius and Fiona both make memorable first impressions.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> beta-read by brightspot149 -- thank you!

The trip to Val Royeaux was a difficult one. They had eight days of straight riding to the Orlesian city of Jader, then a four-day voyage across the Waking Sea to the capital of Orlais. Cassandra fell ill with sea-sickness the first day at sea, leaving Solas to tend to her above deck. Ciri and Olgierd took the opportunity to corner Varric after supper in their cabin with their questions about his book.

They’d both been curious about where Hawke’s motley collection of friends and allies had gone after the book ended. Varric had much to say about all of them once they settled in.

“Rivaini? No, she really did bring back the Tome of Koslun. Got herself a new ship too after she went back to the Raiders. I hear she’s calling herself an admiral these days. I don’t know if she’s actually in charge, or if she just found herself a really big hat. Could be the same thing, honestly.”

“Daisy kept the eluvian, even after everything. She’s not welcome back in her clan anymore, so she’s looking after the elves in Kirkwall’s alienage. She’s doing a good job of it, too. Sweet girl. Creepy magic.”

“Broody’s busy hunting slavers who came south to prey on refugees. I hear they think he’s a ghost story, but the trail of corpses says otherwise. I’m still shocked he stood with Hawke against Meredith, honestly. But their friendship always confused me.”

“Choir-boy went back to Starkhaven to claim his throne. He was making noise about chasing after Blondie for revenge, but I think the thought of having to go after Hawke too put a damper on his enthusiasm.”

“I don’t know where Junior is. Warden business, you know. Last I heard he went north, but that was years ago.”

“Aveline’s still guard-captain. Kirkwall might actually fall into the sea if she quit her job.”

Ciri leaned forward, ignoring the rocking of the ship beneath her as she perched on the narrow cot. “And Anders? Your book never said what happened to him.”

Varric’s face lost its normal easygoing expression. “I told you before, Songbird. He left with Hawke. Where they went after they started helping the Circles rebel, I don’t know. I don’t want to know, either. It’s not safe for them if Cassandra gets wind I do.”

“Your book seemed torn when it came to Anders,” Olgierd said.

Varric sighed. “Yeah. Blondie – he was a mess. But he was our mess. Could we have stopped him? Maybe. Should we have stopped him? Hawke would say no. I was never sure in the end if it was Anders or Justice holding the reins, but Hawke was convinced that Anders was right.”

“Not you, though,” Ciri said.

“I’m gonna end up saying something incriminating if we keep talking about Blondie,” Varric said. “Want to know anything else? Demons? The high dragon at the Bone Pit? Meredith? Orsino?”

“Demons,” Olgierd said.

Ciri shook her head. “Cullen.”

Varric looked between them. “Demons are easier.”

“Demons, then,” Ciri said. Above their heads, the lantern swayed, throwing deep shadows into the corners of the room and across their faces.

Varric clapped his hands together. The sound snapped sharply through the small cabin. “Demons! I can’t tell you much about how that shit works. I’m a dwarf; I don’t do magic. But Blondie explained to me once that Kirkwall’s Veil is damaged from centuries of blood sacrifice by Tevinter before it became a Marcher city. Things come through that should stay put.”

“And you live there on purpose?” Olgierd asked.

“It’s not that bad,” Varric protested. Olgierd raised an eyebrow, and Varric shrugged. “Okay, yeah, it’s that bad. But that’s _my_ shithole of a city. It’s not like there were demons popping up during dinner. We usually had to track them down in the undercity, or desperate mages summoned them and we had to clean up the mess.”

“Where were the Templars with all of this going on?” Ciri asked.

Varric grimaced. “They were the boil on Kirkwall’s ass, Songbird. We were up to our eyeballs in actual blood mages, but they were busy breaking Chantry law making Harrowed mages Tranquil, abusing the mages in the Gallows, and instituting martial law after the Arishok killed the Viscount. Some were okay. Thrask wasn't bad. But Kirkwall Templars, on the whole, were not what I'd call quality people."

“Which leads us back to our esteemed Commander,” Olgierd said.

“Shit,” Varric sighed. “Fine. You want to know what I think? I think Curly was a good Templar. And I mean that he marched to Meredith’s drum perfectly. He never abused mages, but he certainly looked the other way. He bought into her methods for years. He defied her in the end. Stood with Hawke. Was that enough? I don’t know.”

“You have an opinion, though,” Ciri said.

“Blondie would kill him. Hawke might help. But their hands aren’t clean either,” Varric said. “Me, I’m a sucker for a good redemption story. Whatever made him realize Meredith was wrong, it stuck. I haven’t heard anything from him since about mages being lesser. But trust me, it was never about hate with him. It was always fear.”

With that, Varric left them to get some air. Ciri and Olgierd sat in the small cabin in silence for a moment, then Olgierd said, “He still bears watching, but I’m inclined to take Varric’s word as true. I’d like to think a man can change for the better.”

“As would I,” Ciri said. “But I agree. I’ll keep an eye out.”

She lay back on the narrow bed, watching the lantern swing back and forth. “Olgierd,” she said, “why do you use pyrokinesis?”

“It’s fire magic you question, not the demonology?” He chuckled. “It was there to learn, and I didn’t fear it.”

“The Goetia I can understand, forbidden or not, given your circumstances,” Ciri said. “But pyrokinesis – it’s dangerous, uncontrollable.”

“You speak as though you’ve experience in the matter,” Olgierd said.

Ciri nodded, still watching the lantern swing. “I summoned rain from fire in the desert once. The fire...it spoke to me. Promised me terrible things if only I gave myself over to it. Power, control, domination, friends and enemies alike in chains at my feet. I had to cut myself off from Chaos entirely, save for teleportation. I’ve no notion if the magic of this world will be any different once I start trying spells.”

“Hm.”

“Hm?”

“You forget, dear, that the Power could offer me nothing whilst I was cursed,” Olgierd said. “Love? I’d no room in my heart for it. Family? All gone. Money, infamy, power? I had enough of all three. New experiences, that’s what I craved, and those I could seek out on my own. Anything magic promised me would be false, a hollow reflection of the real thing, and I knew it well after all I’d been through with Mirror. Later, after your father saved me, I knew my strengths and limits well enough not to fear falling prey to the temptations that Chaos whispers when fire is channeled.”

“I believe you,” Ciri said. “I wish I had that strength with magic.”

He laughed. “Ciri. I’m the worst sort of example of a mage. Do you know they call what I do ‘maleficar’ or something like that here in Thedas? No. You’ve power aplenty, and no need to envy a man like me.”

“A man like you?” she echoed. She raised her head to glare at him mildly. “What happened to believing in second chances?”

He looked fond as he shook his head at her. “How’s a man to brood with you poking at him, hmm?”

“He’s not,” she said. “He’s to move on and let go.”

“I try, Ciri.”

“That’s good enough.”

Across the tiny room, Olgierd lay back on the other bed, folding his hands behind his head and joining her in staring up at the swinging lantern.

“Val Royeaux should be interesting,” he said.

“Owain gave me an earful,” Ciri said. “Bards are assassins and spies, not minstrels. Everyone wears a mask, literally. The nobles have a cutthroat political game they all worship. And the Empress has been at war with her cousin for over a year.”

“What do you need of me?” he asked.

“Just – watch my back,” she said. “Please.”

“For as long as you like, my sword is yours,” he promised.

The tension she’d been carrying between her shoulders loosened. “Thank you.”

“Get some rest,” he advised. “Tomorrow may be better.”

“That’s Cassandra’s bed,” she pointed out.

“I doubt the Seeker’s in any condition to care,” he said. “Rest, Ciri. Your troubles can wait until tomorrow.”

She closed her eyes, the swinging lantern painting red streaks across her shut eyelids.

“Goodnight, Olgierd.”

“Pleasant dreams.”

* * *

Chancellor Roderick awaited them as they disembarked from their ship on the fourth morning. Two elven servants, masked in gold gilt with little glass mulberries on the forehead and cheeks, led the horses from the deck to join them on the dock. The Chancellor looked stressed, but he gave Ciri a confident nod as she approached.

“We’re lodging at the Comtesse Morhier’s estate outside the city,” he said. “She’s away on business, so there’s little to worry about – but watch what you say in front of her servants. Gossip travels quickly in Orlais.”

Ciri cast a swift glance at the two servants. They stood by placidly, eyes not flickering at Chancellor Roderick’s words of warning. _And so we enter the Grand Game._

“Let’s be off,” Cassandra said. “The sooner we meet with Grand Cleric Oudine, the sooner we can return to Haven.”

Chancellor Roderick nodded and began walking up the dock. “Indeed. Be wary, Lady Ciri. I fear that even the Chantry intends to play the Game with you. Rumor has it that Grand Cleric Agnesot left behind one of her followers to bait a trap for you to stumble into.”

“What manner of trap?” Solas asked. “Do you know?”

“I have no idea,” Chancellor Roderick said. “Grand Cleric Oudine is reluctant to confide in me. I’m afraid my attachment to the Inquisition makes me something of an interloper in her eyes, regardless of my former position at Justinia’s side.”

“What do you suggest?” Ciri asked. “Should we try to avoid it? Or should we spring the trap, whatever it is?”

He looked at her with approval. “Avoiding it limits their options for now. But if you spring this trap and come out the victor, any witnesses will think more highly of you, and by extension of the Inquisition. I wouldn’t presume to tell you which to do, but in Orlais, it’s always better to play the Game. They will play with you whether you wish them to or not.”

“Thank you, Chancellor,” Ciri said. “We’ll be wary.”

The walk to the Morhier estate was short, no more than twenty minutes. The back of Ciri’s neck prickled as they navigated the crowds on the docks and made for a quieter, paved street away from the water. Eyes were everywhere. People were no doubt already carrying tales back to employers of their arrival in Val Royeaux.

The estate was fairly small for a noble’s home, but it was lovely – made of light gray stone and capped with a dark red roof. Shady beeches and statues of hawks in flight lined the gravel path to the door. The elven servants bowed and silently led the horses away to the stables. Another elven servant opened the door and beckoned them inside.

“Your rooms are prepared, messieurs and mesdames," she murmured. She looked them over and frowned. "Forgive me. We did not prepare a room for your servant. He may stay with us if it pleases Your Worship.”

Ciri looked back at her companions, confused. “I didn’t bring a servant.”

“I believe she is referring to me,” Solas said calmly.

“Solas is my tutor in magic, and a valued companion,” she told the servant. “Whatever rooms you’ve already prepared will be fine for us.”

The servant bowed. “I apologize for the offense, Lady Hand.”

“Solas?” she asked.

“It’s of no consequence,” he said. “Consider it forgiven.”

The servant led them up the stairs to their rooms. After they’d been left alone in one, Solas turned to Ciri with a disapproving look, closing the door behind them. “The Game began the moment we stepped foot off the ship. Already you gave away information for free. Now they know you value elves as more than servants – something you should have played closer to the chest.”

“Is it so wrong that I tell them you matter?” she shot back.

“Celene burned down an alienage over rumors she was too close to an elf,” Solas told her, face grim. “Be wary. I could have learned much had I stayed with the servants. Tongues loosen when they believe they’re among their own people. We’ve lost that opportunity now.”

 _Oh_. “I didn’t realize,” she said. “You’re right.” Lady Yennefer would have seen the opportunity. She’d have to think more like her mother until they returned to friendlier territory.

He shook his head, disapproval fading into something kinder. “I do appreciate your insistence on defending my honor. Perhaps we shall gain a different set of allies as a result.”

“Whatever the case, it is done,” Cassandra said. “We should leave for the city soon. Grand Cleric Oudine is no doubt expecting us.”

Varric opened the door and wandered down the hall, sticking his head through the doorways of the other guest rooms. “They’re all the same. Nice view. Do all Orlesian comtesses have such big windows in their bedrooms?”

“It’s a voyeuristic society,” Chancellor Roderick said, lips pursed. “I believe the comtesse’s grandfather enjoyed being caught en flagrante delicto with lovers by passers-by. These days the comtesse prefers to be serenaded from below with the windows open. Just as scandalous, to the Orlesian mind.”

Varric laughed. “They never change.”

The elven servants from the docks came up the stairs quietly, both of them laden with saddlebags. “Your belongings, mesdames and messieurs,” one of them said, bowing shallowly.

Cassandra reached out and took the bags from one of the servants, and Olgierd did the same for the other. "We will be leaving shortly," Cassandra said. "We may return for supper if we are not delayed in the city."

“Very good, Lady Seeker.”

With bags distributed, the rooms were quickly divided up. Ciri and Cassandra were to share a room, as usual, and Chancellor Roderick would room with Olgierd, leaving the last room to Varric and Solas. Ciri took her bag to the room and went through it for a fresh shirt while Cassandra pulled a clean tabard on over her armor.

_No need to offend their religious leaders with the smell of ships and horses if I can help it._

Once again dressed in full armor, albeit somewhat cleaner than before, she stepped into the hall to meet with her companions and Chancellor Roderick. Varric and Solas looked no different. Olgierd looked quite fierce in his new robe, though he seemed uncomfortable.

“I’ll need a runewright before the day is out,” he said. “Cloth makes for poor armor without any enchantment to strengthen the weave.”

“I’d hoped for a better showing than a martial one,” Chancellor Roderick said, eyeing the bristling assortment of weapons strapped to belts and slung over shoulders. “Alas, I suppose this shall have to do. Come. It’s not far. We’ll go on foot.”

They left the estate behind, walking down the shaded path and out to the white stone road that led to the gates of Val Royeaux. Everything about the city seemed to be white, or gaudily golden – the walls surrounding it were white, the gates and roaring statues of lions lining the street were made of gold that gleamed in the late morning sun. There was an artistry there that she couldn’t help admiring, but all of it rang slightly false, a mask for the city to match those of its people. She wondered what she’d find if she scratched the surface.

Their group attracted attention as they walked. Some bowed or curtsied. Others drew back. Most simply watched in silence as they passed, then turned to murmur to their friends behind their hands.

“Agnesot did some damage to our cause’s reputation before she retreated back to Lydes,” Chancellor Roderick said in a low voice. “Be mindful of how you present yourself here.”

“I understand,” Ciri assured him.

A hooded scout intercepted them in the shadow of the golden gates. She went down on one knee, fist over her heart.

“My Lady Hand,” she said, eyes darting across their faces. “Lady Seeker, Lord Chancellor.”

“What are we in for?” Varric asked.

Cassandra rolled her eyes at him. “Do you have a report?”

“Templars have made their way into the city,” the scout said. “The Lord Seeker is with them. We watched to see if they’d return to the Grand Cathedral, but they seem to simply be watching the square – waiting for you, Lady Hand.”

“Is this the trap you spoke of, Chancellor?” Solas asked.

Chancellor Roderick shook his head slowly. “I don’t believe so. There were no signs that the Templars were returning to the fold, either to us or to Grand Cleric Agnesot’s faction.”

“Anything else?” Ciri asked.

“Yes, Your Worship,” the scout said. “A nobleman in the bazaar is attempting to stir the crowd against you. He says you’ll be the end of the Valmonts.”

“Damn it, Maxwell,” Ciri muttered. Louder, she said, “We expected something to happen. Now we know what.”

“A grand cleric’s reach goes far beyond the walls of her chantry,” Chancellor Roderick said. “I wonder what Agnesot promised this fool.”

“Let’s continue, but be wary,” Ciri said. “With the Templars involved, we’ll need to watch our step.”

Cassandra looked hopeful. “It’s an opportunity to recruit them, to bring them to the Inquisition.”

“Perhaps,” Olgierd said. “Or perhaps they’ve other plans in mind.”

“Stay in Val Royeaux for now,” Ciri told the scout. “Return to Haven once there’s something worth reporting.”

The scout bowed her head. “As you say, Lady Hand.”

They proceeded down a quiet avenue lined with marble statues toward a second, smaller pair of gates leading to the bazaar. Ciri wrinkled her nose. It smelled faintly of urine. _Scratch the pristine surface…._

Olgierd looked at one of the plaques beneath a statue of a bald man clutching his head and laughed. “Someone has a sense of humor.”

Chancellor Roderick sighed. “Scorn and pity are appropriate responses to Maferath, not ridicule. Orlesians have never been good at finding the line between satire and mockery.”

“I heard about that play they put on last year,” Cassandra said. “Insinuating Andraste was too busy to fight Tevinter because of her dalliance with Shartan. Appalling. How is it that the Chantry did not step in?”

“I believe certain factions saw it as none of their business,” Chancellor Roderick said. “And others thought it might humble the empress, and raise the grand duke’s profile.”

“ _Ugh._ ”

The bazaar was beautiful, tall white towers and soft blue walls with creeping ivy and meticulously trimmed hedges. Above their heads, deep red banners ran from the far walls to the tower in the center, where they connected beneath a shining gold cupola. Throughout the square, people stood in small clusters, ornately masked and ridiculously clothed. Above them all, a strident voice rang out.

“–Mongrel nobody, deceiving our Divine in her last hours! Will she deceive our beloved empress as well?”

They wended their way through the people, making for the voice. The voice grew louder as the crowd grew thicker. Finally, they pushed through to see a masked man in tight blue breeches and a puffy pink shirt stalking back and forth before his audience. The single red feather on his floppy hat bobbed up and down as he paced. His mask was silver, with an exaggeratedly pointy nose and a false gold mustache. It did nothing to hide his weak chin.

“And here she is!” he roared. “The deceiver herself! Tell me, mongrel, when you’re done destroying the Chantry, will you ruin our great empire as well?”

 _Be like Lady Yennefer. Be like_ _Grandm_ _other – and Keira._

“You’ll have to do better than that to get under my skin,” Ciri said. “I’ve no shame in my ancestry.”

“Pah!” the man spat. “A rabbit with docked ears is still a rabbit. And a mage! To think they hail you as the Maker’s instrument!”

“We all have our responsibilities to live up to,” Ciri said. “Yours, apparently, is to stand in squares hurling insults. Tell me; is this your day-to-day work, or just a hobby?”

Someone in the crowd tittered. Cassandra laughed. “He is a noble of Orlais,” she said scornfully. “You can’t imagine he would do anything so crass as _work_.”

His cheeks, half-hidden by his mask, turned red with embarrassment and anger. He pulled a full purse from his belt and tossed it at her feet.

“Here,” he snapped. “You must have been desperate to ooze out of obscurity with your sad tale of bastardy. Do you need coin? Is that it, mongrel? How much will it take for you to crawl back under your rock? One hundred sovereigns? Two hundred?”

Someone else in the crowd gasped.

“And will you bribe the rifts?” Ciri scoffed. “Pass out gold to every demon that comes out of one? Perhaps you’ll get a trebuchet and launch your coffers through the Breach – see if that makes the problem go away.”

The tittering spread.

“I’ve no interest in your empire, Lord – I’m sorry, who are you?” she asked.

“ _Vicomte_ ,” the man stressed. “Loys le Coq.”

Varric snickered.

“Monsieur Coq,” Ciri said, smirking a little. “I’m afraid I can’t be bought. My only interest is in sealing the Breach and bringing the perpetrator to justice, not dealing with your fascinating political games.”

“A likely story!” Vicomte le Coq cried. “The Templars will know what to do with you!”

Ciri looked about as the crowd parted. A dozen Templars marched into the circle, led by a middle-aged man with pasty, pockmarked cheeks and pale eyes.

“There she is, good Templars!” le Coq said, pointing to Ciri. “Do your duty and arrest this apostate!”

The pockmarked Templar nodded to another one who had circled behind the vicomte. The Templar swung a gauntleted fist at the noble’s head. Le Coq slumped to the flagstones, unconscious.

“He was tiresome, but was that necessary?” Ciri asked, looking at the Templar who seemed to be in charge.

“I hardly did it for your pleasure,” he sneered.

Cassandra straightened at Ciri’s side. “Lord Seeker Lucius, it’s imperative that we speak with–”

The pockmarked Templar – Lord Seeker Lucius – cut her off with a sharp wave of his hand. He looked Ciri up and down, sneer deepening. Finally, he turned and began to walk off, the Templars with him falling in behind him. Cassandra hurried after him, and Ciri and the others followed, the crowd parting to allow them.

“Do not think to address me,” he said over his shoulder. “Creating a heretical movement, raising up this pretender as the Maker’s Hand. You should be ashamed. You should all be ashamed! The Templars failed no one when they left the Chantry to purge the mages! _You_ are the ones who failed! You who’d leash our righteous swords with doubt and fear! Do you imagine your Inquisition’s destiny matters? The only destiny here that demands respect is mine.”

“If you're not here to help, then you just came to do what? Make speeches?" Ciri asked. The smugness and zealotry that radiated from the Lord Seeker were palpable.

“I came to see what frightened people so,” Lord Seeker Lucius said, “and to laugh.”

 _Well. If he’s emblematic of a typical Templar’s attitude, then perhaps the Inquisition is better off without them_.

A handsome young Templar, dark-skinned with striking green eyes, spoke up hesitantly. “But Lord Seeker...what if she really was sent by the Maker? What if–”

“You are called to a higher purpose,” the Templar who’d struck le Coq interrupted. “Do not question.”

Lord Seeker Lucius raised his voice, looking out at his assembled Templars and the watching crowd. “I will make the Templar Order a power that stands alone against the Void. We deserve recognition. Independence! You have shown me nothing, and the Inquisition, less than nothing. Templars! Val Royeaux is unworthy of our protection! We march!”

With the tramping sound of feet falling in unison, the Templars receded through the golden gates of the city. Behind them, two guards carried le Coq off of the flagstones and into one of the blue buildings.

"Charming fellow, isn't he," Varric said, tossing a familiar-looking purse up and down casually.

Chancellor Roderick intercepted the purse on its next downward arc. “The Inquisition thanks Vicomte le Coq for his generous donation, of course,” he said dryly.

“Hey! Finders keepers, Chancellor.”

“Then it belongs to Lady Ciri, doesn’t it?”

Cassandra ignored the byplay, staring after the retreating Templars with a disconcerted look on her face. “Has Lord Seeker Lucius gone mad?”

“Do you know him well, Seeker?” Olgierd asked.

Cassandra nodded. “He took over the Seekers of Truth a year ago, after Lord Seeker Lambert’s death. He was always a decent man, never given to grandstanding. This is very bizarre.”

“Fortunately, the Templars aren’t our only hope,” Ciri pointed out. “Scout Harding made mention of the mage rebellion in Redcliffe.”

“I wouldn’t write them off so quickly,” Cassandra said. “There must be those in the Order who see what he’s become. Either way, a decision will have to be postponed until our return to Haven.”

With the spectacle gone, the people dispersed – no doubt to carry tales to the nearest tavern, or to whisper into an employer’s ear what had been said and who had come out the victor. She looked to Chancellor Roderick. That had been going well until the Templars showed up, or so she thought. He looked less than pleased.

"Now I see why Grand Cleric Oudine hesitated to confide in me," he said grimly. "We face not only a splintered Chantry but hostile nobles. And if the nobles stop turning out their purses to the Chantry, we may be in danger of losing our only official support."

“You did well,” Solas said, nodding to Ciri. He looked thoughtful, his eyes searching her for something. “The vicomte could not find a weakness to exploit.”

“No, but his words will have done damage,” Chancellor Roderick said. “How many of the listeners heard Lady Ciri’s fine rebuttal, but chose to focus on ‘mongrel’ and ‘bastard’ instead?”

“Too many,” Cassandra agreed. “We should go to the cathedral, and see what Grand Cleric Oudine has to say about all of this.”

They turned to leave the bazaar, and Cassandra cried out in alarm, arm flying up to knock Ciri back. “Watch out!”

There, between the Seeker’s feet, an arrow quivered, lodged tightly between two flagstones.

Olgierd shaded his eyes and looked up to the balcony overhead, then up to the rooftops. “Whoever they were, they’ve left.”

“Huh.” Varric yanked the arrow out of the ground and unwrapped a grimy piece of parchment from the shaft. “Look at this, Songbird. Someone wanted your attention.”

He handed it over, and Ciri read it swiftly. “A ‘baddie’ wants to hurt me – no surprise there,” she said. “We’re being sent on a hunt for red things.”

Varric’s eyes lit up. “ _Oh_. These are the Friends. If they have a lead on something, it’s probably worth our time.” At everyone’s blank looks, he elaborated. “The Friends of Red Jenny? No one?”

“Can you handle this, Varric?” Ciri asked, handing him back the note. “I think I ought to go to the cathedral.”

“Sure. Mind if I borrow Red?”

Olgierd drummed his fingers on the hilt of his saber. “The truth, Seeker. How much danger will Ciri be in should she go without me?”

“I can protect the Hand without your assistance,” Cassandra retorted. “And very little danger. The Grand Cathedral is protected, a place of worship.”

“It’s your call, Ciri,” Olgierd said. “I promised you my sword.”

“Go on,” she said. “And find a runewright while you’re out.” She handed him her purse full of the forty-five sovereigns from Lord and Lady Trevelyan.

Olgierd nodded reluctantly. “We’ll meet you there.”

He and Varric left together, and their group, now two short, began walking again only to be stopped short by a messenger in mage robes.

“Maker, what now?” Chancellor Roderick sighed.

The messenger looked past Cassandra and Chancellor Roderick to Ciri. “You are the Hand of the Maker, are you not? I have an invitation for you.”

He placed an embossed card in Ciri’s hand, bowed shallowly, and left without another word.

“What is it?” Cassandra asked impatiently.

“An invitation to a salon at Duke Bastien de Ghislain’s estate,” Ciri said. She rubbed her thumb over the gilt lettering. “It’s hosted by a mage – First Enchanter Vivienne of Montsimmard’s Circle of Magi.”

“You should attend,” Chancellor Roderick told her. “Enchanter Vivienne holds sway with the Loyalist mages, and there will be friendlier nobles present. You may be able to undo the damage of le Coq’s confrontation – and of that unfortunate rumor.”

 _Damn it, Maxwell_.

“I’ll do that,” Ciri said. “But I didn’t bring anything appropriate for a salon. I hope the enchanter doesn’t mind me showing up in armor.”

Cassandra snorted. “You’d make a statement that way, I’m sure.”

“Dressmakers in Val Royeaux are always available on short notice,” Chancellor Roderick said. “Take the dwarf with you when you go for a fitting. He’ll have a good sense of what to wear.”

Ciri laughed. “Not you, Chancellor?”

He shook his head, smiling slightly. “Unless you want my considered opinion on Chantry habits, I’m afraid I’d be of no use to you. Here – make use of le Coq’s money. Think of it as an Inquisition investment.”

Ciri hesitated to take the purse. “Are you certain? He meant to bribe us, bribe me, to leave. Will this not mean we accept his accusations?”

“I was wondering that myself, Chancellor,” Cassandra said with a disapproving frown.

There was a glint of mischief in the Chancellor’s eyes that surprised Ciri. “He tossed that purse in the middle of a crowd, did he not? If he wanted to keep the money, he should have been more careful with it. There’s no saying who took it after that thug knocked him senseless.”

“We are not thieves, Chancellor,” Cassandra scolded him.

“No, but we are practical.” Ciri tied the purse strings to her belt beside her dagger. “If there’s nothing more, shall we go?”

“A moment,” Solas said. He inclined his head to the shadow of the gates. “I believe that woman wishes to speak to us.”

“To Lady Ciri, more likely,” Cassandra said. “Stay here, Chancellor. It appears to be another mage. There may be danger.”

Chancellor Roderick agreed, and the three of them moved casually toward the woman lingering in the shade. She waited until the area was free of passers-by, then stepped forward. She was an elven woman in her late middle-age, tan with luminous brown eyes and short black hair threaded with gray. “If I might have a moment of your time,” she began.

“Grand Enchanter Fiona?” Cassandra asked, surprise in her voice.

Solas’ eyes sharpened in interest. “The leader of the mage rebellion – is it not dangerous for you to be here?”

“I heard the Inquisition was coming to speak to the grand cleric, and I wanted to see the fabled ‘Hand of the Maker’ with my own eyes.” Said eyes took Ciri in without comment, looking her over impassively. Her gaze passed across Solas and Cassandra as she continued. “If it’s help with the Breach you seek, perhaps you should look among your fellow mages. That is, if you count yourself as one of us.”

“I do,” Ciri said.

Grand Enchanter Fiona gave her a small, thin smile. “I’m pleased to hear it.”

“How was it you were not at the Conclave?” Cassandra demanded. “You were supposed to be, and yet somehow, you avoided death.”

“As did the Lord Seeker, you’ll note,” Fiona said archly. “Both of us sent negotiators in our stead in case it was a trap. I won’t pretend I’m not glad to live. I lost many dear friends that day.”

Cassandra backed down. Ciri remembered what she’d told Ritts about losing an old lover in the explosion. So many people had lost someone in this war. For every le Coq here in Thedas, there were a dozen Cassandras. She’d not let them suffer alone.

“It disgusts me to think the Templars will get away with it,” Fiona added. “I’m hoping you won’t let them.”

“I don’t see how the Templars could be responsible,” Ciri said. Lord Seeker Lucius had been odious, but he had nothing in common with the vision in the temple. And the Divine had been restrained by magic, not by Templar abilities.

Fiona gave her a cool look. “Lucius hardly seems broken up over his losses, wouldn’t you say?”

"Well, no, but that's because he's a prick, not an insane murderer," Ciri said bluntly.

At her side, Solas cleared his throat.

“What do you call what the Templars are doing to mages across Thedas right now, if not murder?” Fiona asked. “You heard the man. The Templars wish to ‘purge’ us. Never mind that we are born with magic, that it is a gift from the Maker to be used responsibly and wisely for the benefit of others. No – purging. Like an infection.”

“Lord Seeker Lucius is much changed,” Cassandra said. “He should be curbing their worst impulses, not inciting them.”

Fiona nodded to Cassandra. “Indeed.”

“So what do you want in exchange for the Inquisition’s help?” Ciri asked. “That is what you’re leading up to, isn’t it?”

She gave Ciri the thin smile from before. “I haven’t promised the Inquisition our help yet. Consider this an invitation to Redcliffe. Come, meet with the mages. An alliance could help us both, after all. I hope to see you there. Au revoir, my Lady Hand.”

With those parting words, she melted back into the shadows and walked away. Ciri watched her go, unsettled. Fiona would fit in well with the Lodge back on the Continent. But there was more to her than grasping ambition. No, she was angry...angry, and unwilling to show her desperation.

“There’s our alternative, Cassandra,” she said. “Mages.”

“I’ve heard of worse ideas, I’m sure, but they don’t readily come to mind,” Cassandra said dryly. “The Chantry has split, the nobles of Orlais disdain you, and you wish to ally with mages? And people say I’m rash.”

“Show me a better option, then,” Ciri said as they began walking back to Chancellor Roderick.

“There isn’t one,” Solas said quietly. “Not as of yet.”

“What did she want?” Chancellor Roderick asked. “Was that truly a mage?”

Ciri wasn’t sure where to start. “I’ll tell you on the way,” she said. “We’ve delayed long enough.”

“Finally,” Cassandra muttered.

They left the bazaar and its red banners behind, walking up a flight of stairs, past delicate fountains and pristine green gardens and down wide city streets to an enormous horseshoe-shaped building. It was a masterpiece of severe architecture, all austere white stone and towering columns. In the center of the horseshoe stood a skinny needle of a tower. No one went in or out of it.

“The Grand Cathedral of Val Royeaux,” Chancellor Roderick said as they walked up the steps to the main doors. “The seat of the Divine, and the heart of our faith. As it stands, Grand Cleric Oudine presides over services for now, though I doubt she has the nerve to sit on the Sunburst Throne. A revered mother has taken over her duties in Montsimmard.”

“What should I expect?” Ciri asked.

“More tests, I imagine,” Chancellor Roderick said. “She is Orlesian, after all. But she may surprise us. Remember. _You_ are the Inquisition. We need her support, but we cannot do this without you.”

Ciri nodded.

“Never let them see weakness,” Cassandra advised. “They will pounce on it like starving lions.”

She looked at Solas, and the corners of his eyes crinkled as he smiled faintly. “You’ll do fine. Approach this as you have approached your other challenges, and you will prevail. Take heart.”

She took a deep breath and approached the door. It swung open as her hand hovered over the handle. Light spilled out from the inside, soft and warm. The aromatic scent of incense teased her nose. She stepped through the door, her companions at her back.


	14. Grand Clerics and First Enchanters

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ciri comes face to face with Grand Cleric Oudine. Solas asks questions and finds answers. The First Enchanter's salon is quite Orlesian.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> beta-read by brightspot149. Thank you!

A Chantry sister in a simple knee-length habit was the one to open the door. She froze as they entered, eyes wide. “Seeker Cassandra!” she gasped. “You return!”

“Only briefly, I assure you,” Cassandra said. “We’re here to see Grand Cleric Oudine.”

The sister bobbed her head at them in a nervous bow. “This way, Lady Seeker, Lord Chancellor.” She chewed her lip as she looked at Ciri, then added in a whisper, “Your Worship.”

Solas, Ciri noted, was ignored entirely. She suspected that suited him just fine. They followed the sister down a long hall with a plush red carpet. Light filtered in from high windows, illuminating religious paintings that hung on the walls every few feet. They seemed to tell a sequential tale, from the humble beginnings of their prophet to her death in the pyre.

Solas leaned in closely, pointing at a composition of a crowd outside a city’s walls. “That is meant to be Shartan, I believe.”

“The elven hero?” She took a second look. “How can you tell?”

“He stands by Andraste’s right side,” Solas said. “Even if the artist rounded his ears, his position is unchanged.”

Ciri shook her head. How utterly unsurprising.

“The trend of painting Shartan with human ears began after the Exalted March on the Dales,” Chancellor Roderick said. “I have no great love for the Dalish, but to erase Andraste’s history to make Orlesian nobles more comfortable has never sat well with me.”

“Can’t you do something about it?” Ciri asked.

“You overestimate my influence,” Chancellor Roderick said. “And you underestimate what we face, if you think ears on paintings a worthwhile cause in the midst of all... _this_.”

Ciri thought there was no harm in the Chancellor making inroads on anti-elven sentiment in the Chantry while she and her companions tackled ‘all this,’ but she’d already been warned not to speak too freely in front of strangers in Orlais. The sister leading them down the hall had the posture of someone listening intently.

“We’ll agree to disagree,” she said instead.

They passed a pair of open double doors leading to what looked like a receiving hall or audience chamber. At the end, a massive gold throne sat upon a raised dais, its back shaped like twisting flames. Black cloth was draped across the seat, and dozens of lit candles dotted the floor before it. Voices within rose and fell in unison.

“But from the legion came a swarm of arrows  
Blacker than night. And the disciple who had fought side by side  
With the Lady fell, along with a hundred of his people.  
And among the Alamarri ten thousand swords fell to the ground in a chorus of defeat.”

“The Second Apotheosis, verse four,” Chancellor Roderick commented as they moved on. “The death of the Liberator.”

“They have two days left before the Chant is finished,” Cassandra said. “Then they’ll sing it anew.”

“And how long have they been singing?” Ciri asked.

“Twelve days, though they never really stop,” Cassandra said. “It is my favorite part of being here. The Chant is beautiful to hear sung in its entirety.”

The singing faded as they walked on. The paintings on the wall grew bloodier. Ciri examined one of Andraste burning alive, a sword piercing her chest. The artist had covered the red paint in clear lacquer, making it appear as though she were still bleeding. Her face was beatific in death. _The artist has clearly never seen someone die before_ , Ciri thought. _No one looks that peaceful being burned alive or stabbed through the heart._

The sister stopped at a solid oak door with a gold handle. She knocked briskly, and a voice from within called out, “Send them in.”

Cassandra didn’t wait for the sister to open the door for them. She dismissed her with a nod, opening it herself and striding in. Chancellor Roderick followed on her heels. Ciri and Solas entered behind them.

Ciri looked about curiously as Solas shut the door. The office was large and well-appointed, carved oak furniture with touches of gold-leaf gilding at the corners, plush crimson velvet cushions and curtains blending into the carpet. Low lamps ought to have lent it warmth. Instead, everything looked faintly bloody. Behind a large desk sat a handsome middle-aged woman in an ornate Chantry habit, her tall hat resting beside her on the desk’s surface. She appeared slightly sallow in the room’s lighting. Her brown curls were cut sensibly short, and her gray eyes, heavy with dark circles, studied them levelly before she spoke.

“Chancellor Roderick. I see you brought company this time. Good. It’s high time I had some answers.”

“Grand Cleric Oudine, you’re familiar with Seeker Cassandra,” Chancellor Roderick said as they took seats facing the desk. Solas, bereft of an available chair, stayed standing.

“Justinia’s Right Hand,” Grand Cleric Oudine said. “We met before long ago, before you were Right Hand to Beatrix.”

Cassandra nodded. “I remember you, Your Grace. It was in the aftermath of the battle here.”

“Indeed.” Oudine looked past Chancellor Roderick to Ciri. “And this is she? The one Justinia threw the Chantry into an uproar over?”

“With respect, Your Grace, that was hardly Lady Ciri’s fault,” Chancellor Roderick said. “She was unconscious when Divine Justinia made her final edicts and proclamations.”

“Yes, and now look at the state of things,” Oudine sighed. She pinned Ciri with a sharp, probing look. “Tell me, young lady. How do you feel, having such a title?”

Circumspect. She could manage that. “It’s not what I expected when I woke up that morning,” Ciri said. “In truth, I find it somewhat unnerving.”

“Hm. Then you have sense. Better than I’d hoped, at least.” Oudine’s sharp gaze shifted to Cassandra. “And you believe this, Seeker Cassandra? That she is the Maker’s instrument?”

“That is what Most Holy declared, and I believe her,” Cassandra said stoutly. “I have not seen anything to lead me to believe otherwise.”

“Why?” Oudine demanded. “What in the Maker’s name possessed her to do something so...so rash? _Blessed_ by the Maker, that would be understandable. ‘The Sword of Andraste,’ now that would be palatable to the hardline clerics. But ‘the Hand of the Maker?’”

Ciri shrugged helplessly. “I can only tell you what we saw in the vision from the Fade rift. My memory of the actual event, and of our escape through the Fade, is missing.”

Oudine folded her hands on her desk and leaned forward. “Then tell me, and spare no detail.”

She and Cassandra took turns narrating what they’d seen beneath the Breach – the monstrous shadowy figure of the man, the image of the Divine bound in red magical energy, and Ciri bursting through the door. Ciri thought that Solas, as an expert on the Fade, would have something to add, but he kept silent, content to watch and lean against the wall.

The grand cleric slumped in her chair and rubbed her temples with the tips of her fingers. “Andraste preserve us. Roderick, you told me of this before. Forgive me for doubting you.”

“Forgiven, Your Grace,” he said. “My information was secondhand, after all.”

“And you remember nothing?” she pressed Ciri. “Nothing at all?”

“From the moment I walked through those doors to when I awoke in Haven, my memory is a complete blank,” Ciri confirmed. “Although – I was told that my sword had residue on it from fighting demons. Likely in the Fade.”

“How curious.” Oudine tapped an idle finger on her stack of parchment. “Do you have any suspects, ‘Lady Hand?’ Any theories as to who may be responsible for this vile attack?”

Ciri had only one, but she hesitated to share it. Lord Trevelyan had warned her not to let anyone know an elf might be behind the attack. From what Chancellor Roderick and Solas had said earlier, it seemed Thedas had had its own version of the nonhuman pogroms back on the Continent.

“No,” she said. “Whoever he is, he’s a mystery.”

“A shame,” Oudine said. “A suspect would give the people an enemy to rally against. Oh well. I trust you’re looking for him.”

“Diligently, Your Grace,” Cassandra said.

Oudine nodded. “Tell me of your family,” she said to Ciri. “Good stock, I hope. I hear your mother is an apostate – that won’t go over well.”

“A knight of Markham, and an apostate from a minor noble family of Ansburg,” Chancellor Roderick interrupted. “Geralt and Yennefer Morhen. Both sadly deceased.”

 _Deceased_? Ciri caught herself before she could contradict him. Of course they were ‘deceased.’ No one could find her family here in Thedas. Her story was spun from whole cloth.

“Hmm. Very well,” Oudine said. “Be mindful not to surround yourself with too many malign influences. Orlais is not very forgiving when it comes to the new and unusual. You did well in the bazaar, or so I heard. Continue to do so.”

“You know of that?” Ciri asked.

“Of course,” Oudine said. “We could have intervened, but thought it an easy way to test your mettle. If one vicomte is too much for you to handle, there’s no point giving you our support, is there?”

Cassandra scoffed. “Ugh. This is why I always preferred to be away from the Grand Cathedral, Lady Ciri. The political maneuvering will make you ill.”

“If you’re going to be sick, do so elsewhere,” Oudine said. “The carpets were cleaned last week.”

Cassandra rolled her eyes.

Oudine ignored Cassandra, piercing Ciri with her tired gray eyes. “Now then. Let’s discuss your fascinating background, shall we? The Valmont rumor arrived ahead of Roderick – obviously false, but the nobility pounced on it. I’m afraid the one that followed, of your intriguing heritage, only made things worse. An ancient elf named Latharia, I hear?”

Ciri nodded, unwilling to go so far as to agree out loud with Leliana’s version of the truth.

"The Chantry can turn that into a marvelous tale," Oudine said. "An immortal elf from the days of heathen gods awakens in the time of the Maker and meets a faithful man. She falls in love, so deeply that she discards her Elvhen heritage for a simple life with a human husband. Their descendants lived in obscurity until one day a young woman intervened to save the life of the Divine."

Ciri glanced at Solas. He was still, face impassive. Something dark seemed to flicker across his eyes as he watched Oudine.

“That’s one way of looking at it,” Ciri said carefully.

“Soon, it will be the only way,” Oudine said.

_Ugh. Politics._

“Something clearly happened after the vision ended,” Oudine continued. “Something that made Justinia deliver that proclamation. For it is a true one, of course.”

Her tone allowed for no argument.

“Of course,” Chancellor Roderick echoed.

 _It was that easy?_ _It can’t be_.

Cassandra frowned. “That seems remarkably fast. Do you truly not care about the truth?”

“I care, Seeker Cassandra, that the Chantry is _splintering_ while I watch!” Oudine’s hand came down on a stack of parchment with a muffled crack. “Agnesot took a quarter of our people – to Lydes, or back to their home towns to foment trouble. Grand Cleric Iona of Cumberland is making overtures to her. _Cumberland_ , Cassandra. We lost twelve grand clerics in the explosion. Our best and brightest, all dead in an instant. Kirkwall’s new grand cleric sits on her hands waiting for a sign that she should pick a side. It’s Elthina all over again. I can call upon far too few allies.

“No, Seeker. The Chantry’s best way forward is through the Inquisition. We rally behind Justinia’s ‘Hand of the Maker,’ gather the remaining loyal grand clerics to issue a proclamation stating as much, and provide you with official support and religious guidance.”

Cassandra still looked discontented. “The truth matters, Your Grace. She _is_ the Hand of the Maker.”

“If I cared to seek the truth so badly, I’d join your Order,” Oudine said. “As it is, I’d simply like to prevent Iona from slinking off and taking Cumberland with her. Agnesot’s set a bad precedent. We don’t need more like her.”

“What of the ones who wrote the Inquisition calling what Divine Justinia said blasphemy, and the Inquisition’s leadership heretics for harboring me?” Ciri asked. “Are they still with the Chantry?”

“They were frightened and angry,” Oudine said, “and led to action by Agnesot. None of them have taken the drastic step that she has. That may change. If it does, I doubt it will be more than one or two grand clerics from deeply conservative towns in Orlais. Never fear. I have a hold on them for now.”

“If that’s all,” Chancellor Roderick said, “then we should leave you to your work.”

Oudine took a deep breath, then smiled at Ciri. It was not a reassuring smile. “Continue your good works, ‘Lady Hand.’ Roderick, stay in touch. What else do you have planned for your time here in our city?”

Ciri produced the gilded invitation the messenger hand handed her back in the bazaar. “First Enchanter Vivienne invited me to a salon.”

Oudine leaned forward and plucked the card from her hand, studying the raised letters with cool eyes. “Vivienne of the Montsimmard Circle? I’ve never met her, but I’m familiar with her reputation. You’d do well to attend. The Loyalist mages are a Chantry asset, and First Enchanter Vivienne commands their respect. I suppose it’s too much to expect you brought something appropriate to wear to an Orlesian salon?”

“We’ll stop by the shops on Rue des Couturiers to have a ready-made dress fitted to her,” Chancellor Roderick said. “The dwarf in our party, Varric Tethras, seems to have a nose for fashion.”

Oudine handed the card back, smirking a little. “Better a fashionable dwarf than you or Cassandra, or the elf. Maker only knows what she’d end up wearing with the three of you in charge.”

Solas stirred at that but said nothing.

“You should get a mask while you’re at it,” Oudine advised. “The nobility will appreciate your effort at taking on their customs.”

Ciri nodded and stood, and Cassandra and the Chancellor followed suit. “Thank you for your time, Your Grace,” she said politely.

Oudine’s eyes were already back on her paperwork. “A pleasure. You’ll have our support. Use it wisely.”

Solas was the first out the door. As Ciri exited, Oudine called out.

“One last thing.”

Ciri looked back. “Yes?”

“Have you by any chance come across Grey Wardens in your travels?” she asked. “The Grey Wardens of Orlais have their headquarters in Montsimmard – I received notice several weeks ago that their fortress stands empty. I’ve sent out an inquiry, but it appears they’ve vanished into thin air.”

The Grey Wardens who fought the Blights? The Trevelyans had told Ciri and Olgierd the tales – they were a noble order that reminded Ciri greatly of Witchers. Men and women who left their old lives behind to protect civilization from encroaching darkness. Could their disappearance have anything to do with the attack on the Conclave?

“No,” Ciri said. “But we’ll keep an eye out.”

“Do so,” Oudine said. “And Maker keep you.”

Back down the long hallway they went, past the audience hall with the chanters within, out to the front doors they’d entered through. The sister who’d escorted them was there, as were Olgierd and Varric. Her friends sat on a low bench against the wall, talking quietly beneath the sister’s watchful eyes.

“Success?” Olgierd asked, getting to his feet.

“It went well enough,” Ciri said. “And you?”

He tossed her a much lighter purse. “As you said, it went well enough. They had some interesting runes. I’m keen to try them out.”

Varric held up a scrap of parchment. “That little scavenger hunt paid off. Some noble wants to kill you, Songbird – an ambush on our way out of the city tomorrow. A Marquis Thevenin Frallon. We have the date, time, and place of his meeting with his hired muscle tonight.”

“When?”

“See for yourself.”

Ciri took the paper and read the few lines written down in Varric’s neat handwriting. “This is only a few hours after the salon. Will we have enough time to make it there?”

“I’m guessing something else happened after we left,” Varric said. “A salon?”

“And by process of elimination, you’re the one to help her find a dress to wear to it,” Chancellor Roderick said. “Enchanter Vivienne is throwing this party at Duke Bastien de Ghislain’s estate – plan for high society.”

Varric sighed. “If I could make Hawke look halfway decent for Chateau Haine, I can manage an Orlesian fête. Come on, we’ll talk on the way. I want the details of your meeting with the grand cleric.”

“And I want to know about these Friends of Red Jenny,” Ciri said.

“Your wish is my command, Songbird.” Varric pushed open the front doors and led the way out into daylight, away from the fragrant incense and crimson carpets of the Grand Cathedral.

* * *

Back at the Morhier estate, Cassandra helped lace Ciri into the dress Varric had picked out for her. He’d steered her to a small shop on Rue des Couturiers that had no customers and proudly advertised Marcher fashion in its windows. There, she’d been at a loss while Varric had poked through the ready-made dresses, shaking his head at one and pulling another out for her to try.

Olgierd and Solas, surprisingly, had weighed in with their opinions. Olgierd had an eye for good fabrics and patterns, though he admitted that what he knew of women’s fashion would fit in a thimble. Solas was bolder, suggesting that _this_ underskirt be paired with _that_ overskirt and bodice, and did they not have anything with silver embroidery?

The proprietress suggested a mask, but all of her companions argued against it when the ones brought out were full face masks – “To cover any blemishes or disfigurements,” the woman had said, eyeing Ciri’s scar.

“You don’t put a Marcher in a mask,” Varric had said, and that was that.

The dress they’d settled on was quite nice for such short notice, a deep emerald underskirt of thick silk and a silvery-gray silk overskirt and bodice. The sleeves were a sheer white, full and floaty, collected at the wrists by silver cuffs. It was a very different sort of style than she was used to, but the colors were attractive on her, and it fit well on her lean frame. A pair of silver-beaded white leather slippers finished the ensemble.

“You’ll stand out,” Cassandra said, stepping back and gesturing for her to turn around. “No one else will be wearing Free Marches fashion.”

Ciri ran a hand down the skirt gently. “I think it’s beautiful.”

“I always hated wearing dresses as a girl. I could never escape them, not until I joined the Seekers. You didn’t strike me as someone who liked frivolous things,” Cassandra said.

“I’ve no need of dresses as a warrior, but that doesn’t mean I don’t appreciate them,” Ciri said. “Why wouldn’t I want an attractive gown or a pretty necklace? I like looking nice sometimes.”

Cassandra shook her head. “You and Leliana would get along, I think. She loves dresses and shoes – especially shoes.”

Leliana? Cold, sharp-eyed Leliana, who had stood by her word and changed her ancestor’s name, and had used her to manipulate Mahanon and Malika into joining the Inquisition? Cassandra thought they’d get along?

Well. She’d learned to get along with Avallac’h. And she’d been wrong about Olgierd. She’d keep an open mind.

Olgierd knocked on the door as he opened it, stepping inside with Solas and Varric. “Is it safe for the menfolk to join you?” he joked. “Do we dare look?”

“See for yourself,” Cassandra said. She gave Ciri a light push to her back, nudging her into the center of the bedroom.

Varric looked rightly satisfied with himself. “A vision of Marcher beauty. And here I thought Hawke cleaned up nice.”

“What do you intend to do with your hair?” Solas asked.

Ciri patted her messy bun. “I hadn’t got that far, to be honest.”

“Allow me, then.” He extended a hand in invitation.

Varric chuckled. “Not what I expected, but all right. The bald elf to the rescue.”

Ciri sat on the corner of the bed, hair falling loose down her back. Solas stood at an angle behind her, and his hands were swift and steady as he gathered strands and began plaiting them.

“Back in the bazaar, you could have said anything to the vicomte,” Solas said. “Yet you chose to say that you were unashamed of your ancestry.”

There was an odd note to his voice that made Ciri wish she could see his face. “It’s the truth,” she said. Irksome, frightening, and even downright dangerous as being a descendant of Lara Dorren had been at times, she’d never felt ashamed of her distant elven blood.

“Most humans would disavow such a connection, but not you. Why?”

“How can I, when her magic is why I am the way I am? Why I can do the things I do?”

 _My gift_ , she’d once told Geralt. _My curse._

Solas made a thoughtful sound under his breath and handed her a thin braid to hold. "I suppose there is a difference to humans between the elves of today and the ancient Elvhen. The latter would seem more romantic, perhaps."

“It’s not just that,” Ciri protested. “My mother’s mother was half-elven. Does that make her lesser? She’s a brilliant mage, beautiful and powerful, but kind to her loved ones. Anyone who dares to look down on her does so at their peril.”

“I hadn’t realized you had elven blood of this age, as well,” Solas said.

Ciri made to shake her head, but Solas’ firm hand on the top of her skull stopped the movement. “I don’t. Geralt and Yennefer adopted me when I was a child.”

“And your life before that?”

“I prefer not to speak of it.”

Solas made another thoughtful sound, and he took back the braid. "The vicomte was right about one thing. Somehow, against all odds, the blood and magic of the ancient Elvhen run through your veins. You, a human, are their legacy in this world.”

She wasn’t. She was the legacy of generations of Aen Elle genetic manipulation, stolen away by Lara Dorren, then again by Queen Cerro of Redania. But how could she begin to tell him, especially when he had such set ideas on the elves and Elvhen of this world?

“Does it bother you?” she asked instead.

His hands twisted in her hair, and he tied it back securely. “There. That should do for this salon.”

Varric produced a hand mirror from somewhere, and she turned her head back and forth, admiring the way the small braids twisted and looped around a low bun. “Thank you, Solas. It’s lovely.”

He gave her a small smile, taking the mirror from her and stepping back. “The ancient Elvhen would decorate their hair with flowers that bloomed and died eternally, or with crowns of cold flame in iridescent colors. This is a poor imitation, I’m afraid. But the nobles of Orlais will pale beside you, _da’len_.”

 _Da’len_. He’d called Hyndel that, she recalled. The elven language of Thedas and the Elder Speech of the Continent didn’t seem to have any overlap she could draw on for reference. But it seemed to signify something to him.

“Strange,” Olgierd commented. “Your necklace is bright again. It was dim after the explosion.”

She reached up to touch her agate pendant. Strange, indeed. She hadn’t noticed a change – then again, she never took it off to see. She knew she must have used it in the Fade, but against what? Those missing memories were a mystery that cried out to be solved.

“We'll share the carriage with you," Cassandra said. "There's no point in coming back here after the salon, not with this 'Red Jenny' business waiting for us afterward."

Olgierd gathered Ciri’s armor and weapons in his arms. “Lead the way, Seeker. We’re right behind you.”

* * *

Ciri handed the gilded invitation to the crier at the door, acutely aware of her lack of weapons. Her companions, armed and armored for the battle that awaited them at the Frallon estate, waited paitently for her return in the carriage outside. Varric had produced playing cards as she’d left, looking keen to fleece their friends of their gold.

“Lady Cirilla Morhen of Markham, representing the Inquisition,” the crier announced as she walked past.

Conversation dropped for a few seconds, then picked back up more intently. Ciri gazed about the hall. She stood out like a bright sore thumb in her emerald and silver gown. Most of the women wore cream, brown, or light blue, with exaggeratedly long bodices and full, puffy skirts that swept the floor, or high ruffs that swallowed their chins. The men wore tight hose in deep colors, and the lines of their dark coats and tunics seemed cut to emphasize broad shoulders and narrow waists. All around her, eyes peered at her through holes in masks – porcelain, silver, gold, plain or jeweled. Hers was the only bare face.

A masked servant came by with a tray of bite-sized offerings of food, stopping by her side with a bow. “Your Worship,” he murmured. “May I recommend the baguette with chicken liver pâté? I snuck one myself in the kitchen earlier. It was delicious.”

She smiled at him. “With that kind of recommendation, how can I say no?”

She took one of the morsels from the tray, and he bowed again. “Should you need anything, I or any of the other servants are at your service. You need only ask.”

He left her nibbling on the pâté-smeared toasted piece of baguette, and she chanced a look around the room again. There. A nobleman and woman stood together by the foot of the stairs, watching the crowd as she was. Those two seemed approachable. She finished her morsel – the servant was right; it was quite tasty – and made her way over.

“What a pleasure to meet you, my lady,” the nobleman greeted her. “Seeing the same faces at every party makes for such dull affairs.”

“I can imagine,” Ciri agreed, though she wondered at just how an Orlesian could get used to “faces” with the masks they wore. If an imposter showed up, would they even know?

“Allow me to introduce myself and my companion,” he continued. “This is Vicomtesse Elodie de Morreau, of the Lake Celestine Morreaus. I am Lord Geffray Villon, a mere younger son of the Villons of Arlesans.”

“A pleasure to meet you both,” Ciri said. “I’m C – Lady Cirilla Morhen of Markham.”

“You must be a guest of Madame de Fer,” Lord Geffray said. “Or are you here for Duke Bastien?”

“I have heard the most fantastic tales about you,” Vicomtesse Elodie interjected. “I cannot imagine even half of them are true.”

Ciri leaned in conspiratorially. “I’ve heard such curious tales of me here in Orlais as well. Do share, and I’ll set your mind at ease.”

The pair exchanged a look. “Well...there is one about the Valmonts,” Elodie said delicately.

Ciri laughed, channeling Keira at her most amused. “That _is_ an interesting one, isn’t it? Sadly false, I’m afraid.”

“What a shame,” Geffray said, a twinkle of mischief in his eyes. “Seeing everyone run around in a panic has been most entertaining.”

“And the one about the ancient elf?” Elodie asked.

“Oh, that one’s true enough,” Ciri said.

“Marvelous!” Elodie gasped. “Though you won’t hear the nobles of the Dales say that.”

“You mentioned a ‘Madame de Fer,’” Ciri said. “Who is she? I was invited by First Enchanter Vivienne.”

Geffray chuckled. “Ah, ‘the Iron Lady.’ It’s a fond nickname the court has given Enchanter Vivienne.”

“I’ve heard she finds it amusing,” Elodie added.

“I’m afraid I know very little of Duke Bastien,” Ciri said. “Will he make an appearance tonight?”

“It’s unlikely,” Geffray said. “There’s been no official announcement, but it’s known that he’s retiring from public life. His son Laurent has taken over many of his duties at court.”

“He’s yet to give up his seat on the Council of Heralds,” Elodie said. “He’s away from home for weeks on business – terrible for a man of his years! And _then_ there’s the civil war to think of. Bastien probably wishes to distance himself from the actions of his former son-in-law.”

Geffray shook his head reprovingly. “Tearing up the Dales in a foolish bid for power? It will end in disgrace for Gaspard. Everyone knows it.”

_Leliana and Josephine would die to be here. As would Maxwell._

“I should attend more of these parties,” Ciri said. “I’m learning all sorts of interesting things.”

“Better and better!” Elodie said brightly. “The Inquisition makes for novel guests.”

A coarse scoff cut across their conversation. “Pah! The Inquisition! What a load of pig shit.”

Ciri turned to see a man descending the stairs in their direction, a swagger to his step.

“Murderous sisters and crazed Seekers?” the new man continued. “No one can take them seriously.”

“The Chantry does,” Ciri said. “Or did I imagine my conversation with Grand Cleric Oudine earlier today?”

The man faltered. Ciri grinned.

_Be like Mother. Be like Keira._

“Oh, I’m sorry,” she said sweetly. “Was your information perhaps out of date? A few hours can make all the difference, you know.”

Elodie snapped open a fan in front of her face. Geffray muffled a suspicious cough in his sleeve.

The new man found his spine and pointed an accusing finger at Ciri. "Everyone knows the Inquisition is just an excuse for heretics to grab power from honest men and women."

“How strange,” Ciri mused. “And here I thought ‘everyone’ knew that the Divine founded the Inquisition. I was unaware that she was a heretic, or that the Left and Right Hands were. Perhaps it’s _my_ information that’s out of date.”

“Says the mongrel bastard who deceived her into doing it!” The man reached for his sword. “If you were a woman of honor, you’d step outside and answer the charges – but half-breeds don’t duel, do they? They just die on Orlesian blades.”

From the top of the stairs came the faint sound of fingers snapping, and the angry man froze, his hand on his sword hilt. Frost swirled around him as ice crawled up his body. A light, cultured voice called down the stairs.

“My dear Marquis, how unkind of you to use such language in my house...to my guests.”

A woman walked down the stairs with measured steps, taking in the scene with impassive eyes. Even masked, Ciri could see that she was beautiful, with rich umber-brown skin and full lips. She wore an unusual outfit, a clinging concoction of silver and white silk with high boots and a plunging neckline. The horns attached to her mask were clearly inspired by the Vashoth, or by pride demons. They were certainly intimidating. Ciri could easily imagine half of the Lodge of Sorceresses dressed like this woman, if only they had her tailor.

The woman reached the bottom of the stairs and slowly circled behind the frozen marquis. "You know such rudeness is...intolerable."

“Madame Vivienne, I humbly beg your pardon!” the marquis gasped.

“You should,” Madame Vivienne said flatly. “Whatever am I going to do with you, my dear?”

She turned to Ciri. Her voice gentled. It was a remarkably genuine performance. “My lady, you’re the wounded party in this unfortunate affair. What would you have me do with this foolish, foolish man?”

Ciri stepped closer. “You’ve marvelous control over that spell,” she said, ignoring the marquis.

Vivienne’s lips curled in a pleased smile. “Why, thank you.”

“How long can you keep him that way?” she asked.

“For as long as I need to, darling. Why ever do you ask?”

Ciri couldn’t restrain a small, impish smile. “Perhaps the marquis needs some time to cool his head. He did seem rather rash.”

Vivienne laughed delightedly. “Oh, poor Marquis. Hurling insults like some Ferelden peasant. And all dressed up with nothing to show for it. Didn’t your aunt give you that to wear to the Grand Tourney in Markham? To think, all the brave chevaliers who will be competing left for the Free Marches this morning...and you’re still here. Were you hoping to sate your wounded pride by defeating Lady Cirilla in a public duel? Or did you think you’d find favor with the Chantry’s rejects by killing the Maker’s Hand...if indeed you were capable of such a feat?”

Vivienne tucked Ciri’s arm into her own, looking over her shoulder at the frozen marquis as they walked away. “Don’t go anywhere, Alphonse. I’ll be back for you. Eventually.”

“How did he get on your bad side?” Ciri asked quietly as Vivienne led her out of the grand hall and into an out of the way passage, stopping by an open window overlooking a lush garden.

Vivienne tilted her head at Ciri curiously. “Why do you assume he did?”

“I was told that the nobles attending this salon would be friendlier, more sympathetic to the Inquisition,” Ciri said. “He was unpleasant and ill-informed. You also managed to intervene at _just_ the right moment – not to mention, the way you cut him down to size was more than just business.”

Oddly, Vivienne looked pleased. “My, you are quite the observant one, aren’t you? Alphonse crossed me. I’ll not speak of how, but know that he deserved it.”

“So was that show for my benefit, the crowd’s, or yours?”

Vivienne laughed. "Must I choose? My dear, now you know of my faculty with magic and my influence with the nobility. That was for your benefit. The marquis’ disgrace was to mine. His aunt is the vicomtesse of Mont-de-Glace. Not a powerful family, but well-respected...and very devout. Alphonse will be disowned for this. It’s not the first time he’s brought his aunt disgrace, but I’m sure it will be the last.”

She smirked. The thin moonlight filtering down through the window glinted off her silver mask and the threads of her clothes, bathing her in a chill light. “And after such a public humiliation, I expect he’ll run off to the Dales to join the empress’ army. Either to make a good end, or to win back a modicum of self-respect.”

Vivienne reminded Ciri viscerally of Fringilla Vigo and Philippa Eilhart. Shrewd, scheming, manipulative, and quite controlled in her power. And Ciri had helped her, had played a part in a man’s downfall. _This is not what I had in mind when I thought to be more like Mother and Keira_. Vivienne would bear watching. But she couldn’t afford to alienate her, not when she’d been encouraged to win her over by both Chancellor Roderick and Grand Cleric Oudine.

Ciri kept her thoughts locked up tight. She smiled politely. “You certainly know how to throw a lively party.”

“I’m glad to keep you entertained, darling,” Vivienne said, returning the polite smile. “I wanted to meet face to face. It is important to consider one’s connections carefully.”

“Grand Cleric Oudine said as much,” Ciri said. “She mentioned you hold sway with the Loyalist mages. She called them an asset to the Chantry.”

“It’s good to know our faith and dedication don’t go unrecognized,” Vivienne said. “She steers you in the right direction. As the leader of the last loyal mages of Thedas, I feel it only right that I lend my assistance to your cause.”

“What assistance would you bring to the Inquisition?” Ciri asked. “We don’t have that many marquises in Haven that need freezing, I’m afraid.”

“I am well-versed in the politics of the Orlesian Empire. I know every member of the Imperial Court personally. I have all the resources remaining to the Montsimmard Circle at my disposal. And I am a mage of no small talent,” Vivienne said. “Will that do?”

That was impressive. Josephine and Maxwell would find much to work with. But Ciri still had questions.

“Would you work from Val Royeaux – from the Imperial Palace?” Ciri asked. “Surely you’re well-placed politically to help us in that manner.”

“Ordinarily, I’d be happy to serve in that capacity, but these are not ordinary times,” Vivienne said. “The Veil has been ripped apart, and there is a hole in the sky. It is every mage’s duty to work toward sealing the Breach. And so I would join you on the field of battle.”

“You are aware that by Chantry standards, I’m an apostate,” Ciri said, “as are two of my close companions. I’ve never set foot in a Circle. I’m not opposed to your help. You just ought to know who you’ll be working with.”

“I’m giving my help to the people of Thedas,” Vivienne said. “‘Magic exists to serve man.’ That three apostates have the strength of will to resist demonic temptation outside of a Circle’s protection is very rare. I applaud your fortitude, but you must see that it is an exception, not the rule. Magic requires an institution, a safe haven, where it can be protected and nurtured.”

From what Owain and Evelyn had said, most Circles were anything but that. She wondered at Vivienne’s experience, that she saw things so differently.

“And you need not worry for my delicate sensibilities, darling,” Vivienne added. “I can work with anyone, so long as they have thick skin.”

“And wards against frostbite, I assume,” Ciri quipped.

Vivienne laughed. “Oh, I’d never be so banal as to _repeat_ myself.”

Ciri had her qualms, but ultimately, there was only one choice. “The Inquisition will be happy to have you, Lady Vivienne.”

Satisfaction glinted in Vivienne’s cool brown eyes. “Great things are beginning, my dear. I can promise you that.”

“Will you be traveling back to Haven with us, or do you have your own transportation arranged?” Ciri asked.

“I’ll make my own way there,” Vivienne said. “Now, that’s enough business. Come, enjoy the party. There’s an exquisite centerpiece in the hall you really must admire before it’s gone.”

Vivienne left her standing alone in the passageway, sweeping off to mingle with her guests. Ciri took a steadying breath, resisting the temptation to wipe sweaty palms off on her silk gown. _Ugh. Politics_. She tried to play, and it backfired, potentially costing a man his life. She’d be warier next time.

She flagged down one of the tray-laden servants, who promptly stopped and came to her side with a bow.

“Your Worship?”

“Is there a side door out to the drive?” she murmured. “I’d like to leave without being seen.”

“This way, Your Worship,” the servant said. She handed her tray off to another servant and led Ciri down another passage and out the servants’ entrance. “Farewell, Your Worship.”

“Thank you,” Ciri said sincerely. “I appreciate your help, truly.”

She crossed the drive to the Morhier carriage and clambered in, slamming the door shut behind her. “Let’s go,” she said. “And let’s never come back.”


	15. Jennies and Conspiracies

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ciri meets Sera and learns that the plot against her goes deeper than she thought. She has an unpleasant night and turns to Triss for a helpful conversation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> beta-read by brightspot149 -- thank you!

Cassandra knocked on the carriage wall, and the driver started with a jerk and a lurch. The ride smoothed out as it picked up pace, and Ciri turned her back to Cassandra.

“Unlace me, please.”

Cassandra loosened the ties down the back of the bodice as the three men seated facing Ciri either covered or closed their eyes.

“Sheesh,” Varric muttered. “It’s like Hawke and Rivaini all over again.”

“Dear girl, I’ve no need to see you in your altogether,” Olgierd said.

Ciri rolled her eyes and slipped the gown off. “Honestly, men. Always making things more complicated. Someone hand me my shirt.”

Olgierd fished it from the floor and held it out blindly. “I take it from your mood that things went awry?”

“Oh, no,” she disagreed. “They went _splendidly_. I’ve likely directly contributed to a man’s disownment and passive suicide in the civil war, and Enchanter Vivienne is the sort of person I’m loath to take my eyes off for long. But we have her assistance. She’ll join us in Haven.”

“What happened?” Solas asked.

Ciri dressed quickly, telling them the whole tale as she pulled on her armor and traded her delicate slippers for sturdy boots.

“A servant led me out the back,” she finished. “It was odd – they were all very helpful, more than I’d have expected.”

“Could tie in with the Jennies,” Varric posited. “They have an unbeatable network. It’s a casual thing, though. They aren’t spies or fighters.”

“Or someone else is maneuvering in the shadows,” Solas said.

Ciri claimed her weapons from the floor and sat beside Cassandra. “So far, everyone has had someone else pulling their strings. We should try to take this Marquis Frallon alive, see what strings are attached to him.”

“An excellent idea,” Solas said. “He is likely only a small part of a bigger picture.”

Cassandra folded Ciri’s gown carefully, tucking it away in a compartment beneath their seat. “Then we must proceed carefully.”

Ciri put the salon from her mind. She looked about at her companions with a smile. “I hope you all had a better time than I did.”

Cassandra made a disgruntled sound under her breath, and Varric laughed.

“It serves me right, teaching Red and Chuckles to play Diamondback,” Varric said. “I got fleeced, Songbird. Not as bad as the Seeker, though.”

“I’d like to learn,” Ciri said. She was familiar with the dwarven game of Gwent, which was wildly popular on the Continent. It would be interesting to see how Thedosian card games compared.

“Later,” Varric said. “After my wallet’s recovered.”

The carriage rattled on, away from poisonous smiles and hidden agendas and toward a confrontation she hoped would be less complicated.

The ride to the Frallon estate passed quickly. Conversation among their group came easy now, and Ciri coaxed stories from everyone. Solas was tight-lipped about his origins but full of fascinating anecdotes about memories he'd seen in the Fade. Cassandra shared a tale of her childhood with her brother Anthony, and of the royal Pentaghast dynasty of Nevarra. Varric told a wild tale of Hawke, Anders, and Isabela setting up a vicious Templar for lyrium smuggling and demon worship to get him kicked out of the Order.

Olgierd’s tale was a quiet one, of leaving his brother and his friends in a tavern to walk by the water and bumping into a young woman painting on the docks, and being struck by her demand that he stay still so she could add him to her landscape.

Ciri contributed with a story of helping a group of circus-folk steal horses from a racist merchant alongside Geralt, and of the dancing and horse-racing that went on that night.

“We rode them right out the barn,” she said, laughing. “The guards never caught us.”

Cassandra looked disapproving but reluctantly amused. “If there was truly no other recourse, then I can understand breaking the law for a good reason. But I hope you don’t always choose such a path.”

“Leave off, Seeker,” Varric said. “You do what has to be done.”

The carriage came to a halt. Ciri peered out the small window on the door and saw that they'd arrived at a quiet estate.

“I think we’re here.”

They filed out of the carriage, and Ciri looked up at the driver. “Wait here,” she said. “We shouldn’t be long.”

“As you say,” the driver murmured, dipping his head.

Everyone gave one final check to weapons and armor. Varric slotted a sharp bolt into place in his crossbow, and Solas took his staff in hand. Olgierd nodded to Ciri.

“On your lead.”

She led the way along the edge of the drive and into the courtyard on quiet feet. A rustle and clink of armor, and the sound of low voices, caught her attention. She jerked her head at Cassandra, who stepped out in plain view, shield held before her.

“It’s the Inquisition!” a man cried. An arrow thudded off Cassandra’s shield.

Plain armor, rough accents – hired guards or mercenaries, at best. Not Frallon. Ciri shot forward, sword in hand, to join the fight.

“They knew who we were,” she said when the men had fallen. “Though they weren’t expecting us.”

“Seems our tipster told the truth,” Olgierd said. “Let’s see if the marquis is further in.”

“I’d like a word with him,” Ciri agreed.

They crossed the dark courtyard, quiet again in the aftermath of their skirmish, and Ciri pushed open a tall pair of double doors. Flames shot past her face, and she immediately pulled back behind the doors.

“The ‘Hand of the Maker,’” the man within rasped. “How much did you expend to discover me? It must have weakened the Inquisition immeasurably!”

Ciri played a hunch. “You weren’t that subtle. Someone tipped us off in the bazaar this morning. Marquis Thevenin Frallon, the Inquisition has some questions for you.”

“He cannot be the marquis,” Cassandra objected. “You saw him use magic! Mages have no claim to noble titles.”

The man – Frallon? – smirked and struck a pose. “My grandfather knows nothing of my efforts. But my victory shall survive against you, ‘Lady Hand.’ I have been promised!”

“Just say ‘what,’” a young woman called from across the way. A tall, broad-shouldered elf with a ragged blonde haircut and pink cheeks, she stood with a bow and arrow, the string of the bow stretched tight and the head of the arrow pointing directly at Frallon.

Frallon spun to face her. “What is the meaning of–”

He dropped to the floor of the inner courtyard with a choking gurgle, the arrow lodged straight through the back of his open mouth.

“Eugh,” the young woman grimaced. “Squishy one, but you heard me, right? ‘Just say what.’ Blah, blah, blah, obey me, arrow in my face!” She yanked the arrow free with a squelch. “Rich tits always try for more than they deserve.”

Ciri ran her hand over her face, fighting the twin urges to groan and laugh. “We were planning on taking him alive.”

“Oh, shite,” the woman said. “Really? Piss.”

Olgierd started laughing. “Vlod would have loved this.”

“This isn’t amusing,” Cassandra chided him. “We came to discover a conspiracy, and now we have nothing.”

“I dunno,” the woman said. “You could always toss the place for clues or something. Notes and things. The servants will know.”

“At the very least, Seeker, a threat is eliminated,” Solas said.

The woman twiddled the bloody arrow in her hand. “See what happens when you follow the notes? Baddies get done in. So...you’re the Hand of the Maker? You look...huh. Kind of plain, really. All those rumors, and you’re just normal.”

“That’s me,” Ciri said. “Normal, plain, Ciri.”

The woman held out a hand. “I’m normal, plain, Sera. This is normal, plain, cover. Better get ‘round it.”

“What for?” Varric asked as they did so.

“For the reinforcements,” Sera said. “Don’t worry. A servant tipped me their equipment shed. I nicked their breeches!”

Ciri couldn’t restrain her laugh this time as a handful of armed guards ran out from around the corner, swords raised and bare asses shining in the moonlight.

“I hesitate to ask,” Olgierd called as he struck down a half-naked guard, “but why not take their swords?”

Sera cackled. “Because no breeches!”

Ciri whirled and slashed to Sera’s giddy chant of “Butt, arse, cheek!” She was sure she’d been in stranger fights, but they didn’t readily come to mind.

The last guard fell, Sera's arrow through his knee and Cassandra's sword through his throat. Sera turned to Ciri, a flush of excitement still high on her cheeks.

“Friends really came through with that tip. No breeches!” She giggled. “So. ‘Hand of the Maker.’ You’re a strange one. I’d like to join.”

“You, personally?” Ciri asked. “Or you, as Red Jenny?”

Sera’s eyes lit up. “Ooh, you _did_ do things proper. No, just me. But I can use the Friends to help you. So long as you’re not a prick. Jennies don’t help nobs and arseholes push little people around.”

“Hawke and I used to work with the Friends of Red Jenny back in Kirkwall,” Varric said. “We took care of the gangs, and they threw a little gold our way.”

Sera nodded. “Place like Kirkwall, no surprise that’s how the Friends worked. Here in Orlais, we keep the nobles in check. Like this tit. All his important plans, but who did him in? Some houseboy who don’t know shite, who stole scrap from his desk because it looked important. So no, Jennies aren't all grand and special like your nobles, but if you don't listen down here too, you risk your breeches." She grinned. "Like those guards – I stole their…. Listen. Do you need people or not? I want to get everything back to normal. Like you."

Like with Vivienne, there was only one choice. This time, though, it was one Ciri made happily. “Welcome to the Inquisition,” she said. “I’m glad to have you with us.”

“Yes!” Sera cheered. “Get in good before you’re too big to like. That’ll keep your breeches where they should be.”

“Stick around,” Ciri said. “We need to find evidence on the ‘tit’ you killed.”

Sera shrugged. "It's all good, innit? Servants will know where to look. Hey – you want the breeches? 'Cause I have all these extra ones from the guards. You have merchants in Haven who buy that pish, yeah?"

“Breeches later,” Varric said. “Snooping now.”

Sera led the way to a small door and knocked in an odd pattern: two quick raps, then four, then another two. A few seconds passed, and the door creaked open to reveal a masked human servant. His mask was a cheaper match to Frallon’s, gilt where Frallon’s mask had been solid gold.

“This was supposed to be over quickly,” he said.

“Yeah, well, it’s not,” Sera said. “Can we poke around for stuff?”

Behind the mask, the servant looked aggrieved. “That _branleur_ drugged half the household to keep this meeting quiet. The marquis is insensate. Come in, but make it fast.”

The servant led them down a hall to a well-appointed study. “The grandson, Rolet, used this for his business after the Circles fell,” he said. “If there’s anything, it will be here.”

Varric and Sera instantly made for the desk, rifling papers and pulling open drawers. Olgierd crossed to the fireplace, bending over to inspect the ashes. Solas ran careful hands down the wood paneling of the walls, pressing every so often. Ciri shoved her hands down the sides of the overstuffed armchair, feeling around for the telltale crinkle of paper.

“Ha!” Sera cried. “Got something!”

She brandished a bundle of letters tied together with a cream-colored ribbon.

“Let’s have a look,” Varric said.

They crowded around to read the letters over Sera’s shoulder. Olgierd whistled, long and low.

“Whoever this ‘Papillon’ is, they had him twisted around their little finger,” he murmured. “Seeker, you’re familiar with Orlais. Do you think they had the power to do as they promised?”

“Not without knowing who they were,” Cassandra said. “And they promised much, so long as he delivered.”

“All while dripping poison in Rolet Frallon’s ear,” Solas said.

“We’ll take these to Leliana,” Ciri said. “She’ll know what to make of all this.”

“Not to put too fine a point on it, but you’ve a fair number of people after your head,” Olgierd said. “The Grand Cleric in Lydes, the marquis at the salon, Frallon and now this Papillon.”

“Grand Cleric Agnesot seems to favor discrediting Ciri rather than killing her,” Solas said. “But your point is sound. Our battle is an uphill one if we wish to win over Orlais.”

Sera snorted. “Piss on the nobles. You want the little people. There’s more of them, anyhow.”

The servant came back, eyes wide behind his mask. “Quick!” he hissed. “Get out. The marquis–”

The sound of someone staggering heavily down the hall came from behind the servant, and a voice called out muzzily.

“Rolet? Rolet? Where are you? What have you done now?”

“Ah, _merde_ ,” the servant swore.

The man calling out appeared in the doorway. He was elderly, flyaway gray hair and face lined with wrinkles. His mask was missing. His bleary eyes blinked at Ciri and her companions, then focused, glaring.

“What are you doing in my grandson’s study?” he demanded. “Where is Rolet? Guards! Guards!”

Solas crossed the room swiftly and tapped the marquis’ forehead. The man slumped, unconscious, and Solas caught him and lowered him carefully to the floor.

“He’ll sleep for the rest of the night,” Solas said. “This will be no more than a strange dream to him.”

“A nightmare to wake up to, though,” Varric said. “His grandson’s dead.”

Sera ducked her head, smiling sheepishly. “Yeah, oops.”

“I think we’re done here,” Ciri said. “Thank you.”

“Don’t mention it,” the servant said. “Really, don’t.”

The servant led them back out to the inner courtyard, and once they were all outside, slammed the door in their faces. Sera grinned.

“Well, that was easy. So, Haven. See you there?”

“You could travel with us,” Ciri offered. She was reluctant to part with the energetic archer – finally, Thedas had offered up someone uncomplicatedly fun, even if she did throw a wrench in their plans.

“Nah,” Sera dismissed. “I have Friends to talk to. Val Royeaux needs a new Jenny before I leave. You take care, ‘plain, normal Ciri.’ We’ll catch up later, yeah?”

She disappeared out a back gate with a wink and a laugh.

“She’s different,” Varric said once she was gone.

Cassandra shook her head. “Do you believe it was wise to recruit her? She seems erratic, to say the least.”

Ciri began walking out to the drive, and her companions fell into step with her. “I like her,” she said honestly.

“She has a refreshing charm,” Olgierd agreed. “Cheeky young thing.”

“Perhaps we should write ahead to Haven,” Solas said dryly. “They won’t know what’s about to hit them, with both Enchanter Vivienne and Sera arriving soon.”

Ciri laughed. “I wonder what they’ll make of each other.”

“Will Haven be left standing?” Olgierd jested.

Cassandra frowned. “Ugh. You joke, but it’s true. I should warn Leliana.”

The driver was right where they’d left him, and they piled into the carriage. Ciri entered last, calling up to him on his driver’s seat, “Back to the Morhier estate, please.”

“Very good, Your Worship.”

She climbed in, collapsing back into her seat beside Cassandra. Today had been excruciatingly long. Soon she’d have her well-earned sleep.

* * *

Ciri whipped past the cheering boys, flying over the ice on sharpened skates. One leap, two, threefourfive six seveneight! Hjalmar groaned as she beat his record with ease, and he skated out to meet her.

“ _Zireael_.”

She whipped around. Avallac’h stood on the icy lake, unseen by the boys.

“Wake, _Zireael_ ,” Avallac’h told her. “Danger lurks.”

He reached out and tapped her forehead as Solas had done to the marquis.

“Wake!”

She shot up in bed, hand reaching for the dagger beneath her pillow. A shadow crossed the window and she lunged.

Strong hands grappled with her. Another dagger flashed in the moonlight, descending toward her face. She rolled away, shouting for Cassandra, and darted back in to strike the assailant.

The intruder cut a hot line down her arm with their dagger as Ciri drove her own home into their chest. Panting, she stood over her attacker, dagger dripping with blood.

“Maker!” Cassandra exclaimed. “An assassin?” She joined Ciri by the open window, looking down at the dead intruder.

“It appears so,” Ciri said. She struggled to get her heart back under control.

She heard the pounding of feet down the hall, and Olgierd ran in, followed by Solas, Varric, and Chancellor Roderick.

The Chancellor took one look and paled, averting his eyes. “Andraste preserve us!”

Olgierd ignored the body entirely, crossing to take Ciri’s injured arm in his hands. She flinched as he probed the edges of the gash gently with the tips of his fingers. “The whoreson. Are you injured elsewhere?”

“No, no,” Ciri said. “I’m fine, I swear.”

“Solas,” Olgierd said over his shoulder, “you’ve a talent for healing, don’t you?”

“It’s not my area of expertise, but I’ll do what I can,” Solas demurred. “Seeker, where are the potions?”

Cassandra left the body and went to rummage through her bags. “Here. Maker help us, who sent an assassin?”

“Someone wants us to think it was le Coq behind this,” Varric said. “Look.”

Ciri looked over as Varric held up the assassin’s mask – silver, with a pointy nose and a gold mustache. She accepted a potion from Cassandra and took a swallow, grimacing at the herbal, mildly astringent taste. “What makes you say ‘wants us to think?’”

Varric poked at the corpse’s cheek. “Tan lines don’t match.”

Ciri craned her neck to see what Varric was talking about, held back as she was by Olgierd’s hands. Solas placed a gentle palm over the gash in her arm, and a soft warmth pulsed through her stinging cut.

“You’re right,” Cassandra said. She sounded quite surprised.

Solas pulled his hand away, and Ciri walked over to join Varric, still clutching her bloody dagger. The assassin’s face, slack in death, had an unusual tan line. Two sharp points extended down his cheeks toward his jaw.

“Solas, could you sketch this tan line?” Ciri asked. “Leliana might have an idea of who his mask really matches.”

“Certainly,” Solas said.

“Paper and charcoal’s in my bag,” Varric offered. “I don’t think it’ll be any use, though. My bet is this is just a bard for hire.”

“I’ve had my fill of Orlais,” Olgierd said. “We leave on the morrow, correct?”

“And good riddance,” Cassandra muttered.

Solas left the room, presumably to find Varric’s writing utensils. A servant stuck her head around the corner of the door and exclaimed in shock.

“Oh!”

“Do you know anything about this?” Chancellor Roderick demanded.

The servant shook her head vigorously. “No! Forgive me, Lord Chancellor. We should have anticipated threats to your persons. Allow me to fetch Mathieu and Josse – we’ll have the mess cleaned up at once.”

Varric patted the corpse down and stepped back. “Huh. He had a full purse. Heavier than I’d expect for someone dressed so plainly. Must’ve been paid recently. And look, Songbird. He was carrying your portrait.”

Ciri took the proffered paper with her free hand. It wasn’t a bad likeness, but it was clear whoever had drawn it had only heard her described, not seen her. Her hand clenched around the hilt of the dagger convulsively. An assassin? What more would this world throw at her?

“So you were the target,” Cassandra said.

“Thought that was clear.” Olgierd sat heavily on the bed, dropping his head in his hands. “Was this Agnesot? Papillon?”

“Let’s not give either of them a chance to try again,” Varric said. He gently pried Ciri’s dagger from her hand as the servant returned, this time with two others. “You should go wash off the blood. I’ll clean off your dagger.”

“Don’t worry, Your Worship,” one of the servants said. “We’ll have this taken care of in no time. There’s room in the garden for incidents like this. Mathieu, get the feet.”

Ciri fetched a clean shirt from her bags as two of the servants hefted the dead assassin up by the hands and feet and carried him from the room. She fingered the bloody rent in her soft blue shirt and frowned. It would never be the same, even if she managed to get the blood out and stitched up the tear. A petty thing to fret over, but she liked this shirt.

“I’ll be right back,” she said. She pretended not to see Varric tuck the assassin’s full purse into her bag as she left the room.

_Spoils of war, I suppose._

She shut the door to the water closet and slumped against it. By Freya, Melitele, and all the gods of the Continent, what sort of mess had she stepped in? First they deified her, then they expected her to kill for them. Uncontrollable rumors raced ahead of her wherever she went. This magic embedded in her palm did strange things to her teleportation.

Orlais was an unending headache. Politics, poison hidden behind saccharine smiles, insults and agendas, bald-faced racism. And now, the night before they planned to leave, an assassin. She wanted to help, but at what price? Thedas seemed likely to cost her her life if she wasn’t careful – and would those in power even care beyond the loss of their figurehead?

Ciri sighed deeply and walked to the sink, stripping off her bloody shirt as she went. A twist of the knobs and water flowed into the basin. She dropped her shirt in and squeezed out the blood, hands clenching in the fabric beneath the running water. _Damn it all_. She scooped up a handful of water and washed off her newly healed arm. That would leave a scar, despite Solas’ magic.

She dried off her arm with a soft towel. The mix of blood and water left pink streaks across the white fabric. Another thing ruined. She tugged on her clean shirt and gathered her power. She needed a fresh perspective – and Triss would need to be informed.

Ciri pulled on her magic and stepped from the water closet in the Morhier estate to Triss’ guest room in Ostwick. With luck, Triss wouldn’t mind being woken up. She took a look around and stopped at the sight of the empty, neatly made bed. She made for the door and froze, hearing Triss’ voice in conversation with another.

“You’re doing a good thing here, Triss. But how did you manage this on your own?”

 _Margarita_.

She threw herself under the bed just in time.

“You’ve seen it for yourself,” Triss replied as she entered the room. “The Trevelyans had prior connections to the Continent. And they’re well-organized.”

“I could see that,” Margarita said. “They’re impressive, to keep these mages safe from danger so ably. Were you able to teach their daughter any of our magic?”

“No,” Triss said, “though I suspect she would have taken to it better than the others. It’s in her blood.”

From under the bed, Ciri heard feet walking around the room, and then someone sat on the mattress above her head.

“I’d like to meet her someday,” Margarita said.

A pause, and Triss said carefully, “Maybe. You know what Thedas is like. It’ll be better to just take the mages back to the Continent without lingering here.”

A toe tapped by Ciri’s head. “You’re right, I suppose. This ‘mage rebellion’ feels uncomfortably familiar. It’s good we can help at least some of them.”

“How do the renovations go?”

“They continue apace. With Yenna and Keira, and the Witchers, it’s been light work,” Margarita said. “We’re almost ready for Honora and her students to come over. Will you return after we bring them through the portal?”

Again Triss hesitated. “There’s still a lot to learn about this world’s magic. Rita, I have an opportunity here that may never come again. The Trevelyans can set me up with this ‘Inquisition.’ And who knows, more mages may want to join the Markham group.”

“We’ll miss you back on the Continent,” Margarita told her. “And stay safe. This place seems dangerous, in more ways than one.”

Triss’ voice was light, and she scoffed. “More dangerous than Novigrad?”

“Possibly.” Margarita stood from the bed and said gravely, “Watch your back, Triss. You won’t have anyone here to watch it for you.”

“I can take care of myself, Rita. But thanks.” The two sorceresses walked to the door together, and Triss asked, “Will you be back tomorrow?”

“Bright and early, by Continental time. I want to spend more time with that young apprentice with the affinity for fire.”

“Goodnight.”

“Sleep well, Triss.”

Ciri waited until Margarita’s footsteps had faded into the distance, then she rolled out from under the bed. Triss jumped.

“Ciri! Were you down there the whole time?”

“I didn’t have time to leave when I heard Margarita,” she said as she got off the floor. “I needed to speak with you. A lot has happened since I came here last.”

Triss joined her by the bed, her brow creasing with concern. “You look tired. We’ve been getting reports, but it’s all at least ten days behind. What’s happened?”

Ciri sat on the bed where Margarita had just been and began to fill Triss in. She left nothing out, not about the violence in the Hinterlands, her tentative approach to Thedosian magic under Solas’ tutelage, her impression of her companions and the Inquisition higher-ups, the recent Chantry schism, or the utter mess that was Val Royeaux.

“I left them in the Morhier estate. The servants are likely burying the assassin as we speak.”

“I don’t know what to make of a society that ‘has room in the garden’ to bury corpses,” Triss said, shaking her head. She pressed her shoulder against Ciri’s. “How do you want to handle this?”

Cassandra’s strangled sound of disgust escaped Ciri as she dragged a weary hand down her face. “I don’t know. I don’t!”

“Well, option one is you go back home,” Triss offered.

Ciri shook her head. “I can’t. They need this to close the Breach.” She held up her marked hand. “If I leave, I’m abandoning them to something only I can fix.”

“Option two, you stay long enough to close the Breach, and then we leave.”

“I’m leaning toward that plan,” Ciri said. “I wasn’t until I spent a day in and around Val Royeaux.”

“Is there anything you can do?” Triss asked. “Insist someone else deal with politics, or send different people to Val Royeaux next time?”

“I’ll try,” Ciri said. “I doubt Leliana and Josephine were anticipating an assassin would attempt anything. They may wish to keep me from Orlais as a consequence.”

“Option three,” Triss continued, “you seal the Breach and stay long enough to bring the person who created it to justice. I’ll be there with you. So will Olgierd. You and I will both have time to learn this world’s magic – and don’t think I don’t want to keep an eye on you while you learn.”

“I’d welcome your help. And if we stay longer, Olgierd would have enough time to make a decision as to whether he truly wants to stay here or not,” Ciri said.

“Does he really want to stay?” Triss asked.

“I don’t know if it’s a desire to stay or a reluctance to return,” Ciri said. “Either way, I’d like to give him a chance to decide for himself.”

“What would drive him to leave the Continent for good?”

“Bad memories. I’d rather not say more without his permission.” Ciri dug her fingers into the bed’s soft coverlet. “We also can’t leave until we figure out this magic on my hand. I need to get it off after we use it on the Breach again, or absorb it. Something.”

Triss held out her hand, and Ciri put her marked hand in hers. “Has there been any change?”

“It feels heavy when I direct my magic to it, like it’s weighed down at the wrist by stones. And the pinning sensation when I teleport is still there. It may be worse, but it’s such an incremental change that I can’t be certain.”

“I’ll be able to monitor it better once I’m in Haven with you,” Triss said. “In the meantime, don’t start trying any actual spells until I arrive.”

“I won’t,” Ciri promised. “And Triss – when you come, make sure you have a story in place about your background. It’s been a headache, dealing with these rumors. Olgierd and I were thrown into it, front and center. We expected to slip by as faces in the crowd. We would have, if not for Maxwell’s politicking and the Conclave exploding.”

“I’ll work something out with the Trevelyans,” Triss said. “Worry about yourself, Ciri.”

“Margarita’s right,” Ciri said. “It is dangerous.”

Triss smiled. “I know. I just wanted her to stop worrying, too. Casteldaccia and the Markham mages should be her priority, not me.”

“Is that going well?”

“Very well,” Triss said. “Honora and two of the younger Harrowed mages, Demelza and Horas, learned the Surge spell just the other day. The children have mastered all the Witcher signs but Axii. You understand why I’m reluctant to teach that one.”

“It’s easily abused,” Ciri agreed. “I doubt the children have the understanding or restraint not to use it outside their lessons.”

“Exactly.”

Ciri waited to see if there was anything else forthcoming about Triss’ project, but when her friend remained silent, she changed the subject. “We’ll be back in Haven in twelve days. I expect we’ll have a day to recover, maybe two, then we’ll have to return to the Hinterlands.”

“I should be done in Ostwick by then,” Triss said. “I’ll meet you there.”

“I can vouch for you to the higher-ups, but I don’t know how useful my word will be,” Ciri said. “Their spymaster is quite suspicious of my lack of a traceable background.”

“But you have input on the decisions the Inquisition makes,” Triss said. “You give orders and they’re followed.”

“Yes, but–”

“But you’re integral to their command structure.” She smiled sympathetically. “I know how hard it is to suddenly find yourself in charge. You’ve come a long way from the raggedy little girl running around Kaer Morhen I met a dozen years ago.”

Ciri flopped back on Triss’ bed. “I don’t want to be in charge! Cassandra could do it, couldn’t she?”

“You don’t?”

“I –” No. Not really. But the ease with which she gave orders contradicted her protest.

“Well, whatever option you choose, I’ll be there to help you,” Triss said. “You should probably go back to Orlais. Your friends will wonder where you got off to.”

"No, they won't," Ciri said, sitting up. "Space _and_ time, remember?”

“You should go anyway. I don’t control time, and I need my sleep.” Triss politely shooed Ciri to the door, giving her a tight hug before they parted. “Be careful. And I’ll see you soon.”

“Goodnight.”

Ciri took a quick look down the dark hallway. Finding it empty, she gathered her power and stepped back to the water closet in the Morhier estate. She fished her sodden shirt from the sink and wrung it out. She’d sew up the hole on the journey back to Haven.

She opened the door to see Solas, fist raised to knock.

“What was that flash of light?” he asked.

 _Shit_.

“The meditative exercises make light flare around my hands,” she said.

He looked approving at that. “Those exercises are an excellent way to calm the mind and reconnect body to magic after a frightening or traumatic experience. You’re wise to take the time to do so, _da’len_.”

Oh, marvelous. Now she felt guilty – lying to the man who had volunteered to teach her magic. He was aloof and enigmatic, occasionally condescending, but he seemed to genuinely like her, and he was eager to pass on his knowledge. She summoned up a weak smile and gestured to the hall behind Solas with her wet shirt.

“I ought to hang this up to dry before I try for some more sleep. I doubt I’ll get any, but I should make an attempt. We’ve several long days ahead of us, and today was exhausting. Or was it yesterday?”

"I believe it was yesterday," Solas said. "And Varric and Olgierd are of the same opinion that no sleep shall be had. Varric brought out another deck of cards if you're interested in learning to play Wicked Grace."

“Very,” Ciri said. “Will you join us?”

Solas smiled. “Unlike the rest of you, I find it easy to sleep no matter the circumstances. I’ll be in the other room. Wake me if I’m needed.”

He left her with a firm nod, and she made her way back to the bedroom to hang her shirt and join the rest of her companions for a predawn card game. She stuck her head around the door to find that only the first servant was there, scrubbing the bloodstains on the floorboards.

"They've moved to the Lord Chancellor's room, Your Worship," the servant said. "You can leave your shirt here if it pleases you. I'll take care of it for you."

“Thank you.”

Ciri left the shirt on her bed and went back down the hall to Chancellor Roderick and Olgierd’s room. There, she was met with a cozy sight. The cushions were strewn about the floor along with the blankets, and the oil lamps burned merrily. Chancellor Roderick reclined on one of the two beds, nose buried in a book, while Olgierd, Varric, and Cassandra sat on the floor, weapons by their sides and cards in their hands.

“Songbird!” Varric greeted her. “Come join us. We haven’t officially started yet, so we can reshuffle and deal you in.”

“Sounds good to me.”

Ciri dropped to the floor, and Olgierd passed her _Zireael_ and her dagger. “What are we playing for?”

“Stories and songs,” Olgierd said.

Varric collected the cards and shuffled them back into the deck. “Stories and songs. No better way to keep the darkness at bay. Now, there are five suits. Angels, Knights, Songs, Daggers, and Serpents….”

As Varric explained the twists and turns of Wicked Grace to the novice players, Ciri slowly began to relax. She’d be glad to leave tomorrow, but at least tonight she’d have this.


	16. Letters and Meetings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Triss arrives at Haven along with a letter and package from their world. Ciri discusses the events of Val Royeaux with the advisors. A mercenary invites her out to the Storm Coast. She realizes her attraction to a certain someone and wishes she hadn't.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> beta-read by brightspot149 -- thank you!
> 
> The song here is "The Girl in Red Crossing," which comes from the DAI codex.

The first thing Ciri spotted upon their return to Haven was Triss’ distinctive blue roan at the water trough. A smile broke out on her face, and she nudged Olgierd as they dismounted.

“Will you find Triss, see if she made it safely?” she asked. “Cassandra’s likely to pull me into a meeting.”

“She should be easy enough to find,” Olgierd said. “Odds are she’s with Evelyn or her brothers.”

As Ciri thought, Cassandra had already handed off her reins to the groom, and she beckoned to Ciri with an impatient look.

“The fun never ends,” she sighed. With a gentle pat to Zephyr’s neck, she removed the saddlebags and led her over to another waiting attendant.

“Do you have Solas’ sketch?” Cassandra asked as they walked off toward Haven’s main gates, faces tucked against the frigid wind.

“In my purse,” Ciri said. “Frallon’s letters from Papillon, too.”

Cassandra’s hand strayed to the hilt of her sword. “This will lead to trouble. Mark my words.”

“From your lips to your Maker’s ears.”

People called out greetings as they passed, and Ciri tried to return the eager hails with a smile or a nod. None of them were at fault for her predicament, though their reverence still unnerved her. After twelve days of travel, she was no closer to deciding whether to leave Thedas after closing the Breach or not. The deification was a strong argument in favor.

The icy wind cut off abruptly as they stepped into the chantry. In one of the alcoves, a Chantry brother sang, his voice rising and falling with the words of the Chant.

“Blessed are they who stand before  
The corrupt and the wicked and do not falter.   
Blessed are the peacekeepers, the champions of the just.

“Blessed are the righteous, the lights in the shadow.  
In their blood the Maker’s will is written.”

 _I wonder how many Templars used that verse to justify atrocities_? Ciri turned to Cassandra. “I’ll meet you in the back room. I need to put my bags away.”

“Very well, but be swift,” Cassandra said. “We have much to discuss.”

Ciri took no time at all to duck into her room. She stopped abruptly, struck by the faint familiar scent of lilac and gooseberries. She glanced about the room and saw a folded letter placed neatly on her pillow, and a large wooden crate, its lid slightly askew, set by the foot of her bed. She rushed to her bed to grab the letter, unfolding it eagerly.

_Dearest Ciri,_

_Triss stopped by to let us know what you’ve been up to since we saw you last. Dear daughter, you certainly know how to find adventure! Geralt was keen to ride out to the new school the moment the word 'explosion' left Triss' mouth, but cooler heads prevailed. You'd come to us if you need assistance._

_You’re no fool._

_I admit that I fear for you. Between the rumors of impending sainthood and Triss’ tale of the dangers you’ve faced recently, Geralt and I have been wearing grooves in the floorboards. I know how capable you are, darling, but this news of strange magic in your hand does not sit well with me. Should things get worse, please consider coming home. There is no shame in breaking a contract when your life is on the line._

_In lieu of storming Haven to rescue you – you needn’t worry, we’ll not be doing that – we’ve put together a care package of sorts. No doubt you’re running low on some supplies, and I’m sure you’ll want new clothes to wear. I know you only packed enough to get through a week. We tucked some Sepremento in the bottom, and Marlene packed a hamper of her cooking for you._

_Be well, darling. You're strong and smart. We have faith in you, but do remember that you can always come home._

_With all our love,_

_Yennefer_

_P.S. I trust your abilities. But I also remember that you don’t like it when I hover. So we’re doing our best to help from a distance. Say the word and we’ll be right there. Take care of yourself, and stay safe. – Geralt_

She looked from the letter to the crate. It was already open – had Leliana or her people gone through it? Had they read her letter? She re-read it quickly, skimming it to see if there was anything that might give away the game. No, no, everything seemed fine. The contents of the crate tempted her, but Cassandra and the others were waiting. She’d come back after. And she’d share the bounty of Marlene’s cooking with Triss, Olgierd, and the Trevelyans.

She set the letter down on her bed and hurried to the back room, heart lighter than it had been in weeks.

“That took longer than I thought,” Cassandra said as she shut the door behind her.

“Sorry,” Ciri said. “There was a letter.”

She looked around and saw that the full complement of Inquisition advisors awaited her this time. Josephine stood ready with her clipboard. Leliana hovered half-in and half-out of the shadows. Cullen looked over the Orlais portion of the map with weary eyes, hand resting on the pommel of his sword. Chancellor Roderick sat in the lone chair against the wall, rubbing his temples. And Cassandra tapped her foot impatiently, eager for the meeting to get underway.

“The letter from your mother?” Leliana inquired. “Your friend Triss Merigold delivered it. She arrived a few hours ago. Another mage friend to the Trevelyans, I understand.”

“Yes,” Ciri said, “though I’ve known Triss since I was a child.”

“She mentioned that.” Leliana looked curious, not suspicious. “Both Owain Trevelyan and Raúl de Medina have vouched that she was an apprentice at the Starkhaven Circle before it burned down. Knight-Captain Rylen doesn’t remember her, but then, he admits his memory isn’t what it was.”

_So that’s the story Triss is going with. It’s not a bad one._

“Lyrium does have that effect, I hear,” Ciri said. 

Cullen grimaced. “Knight-Lieutenant Owain and his compatriots are certainly free with their information.”

“I asked, Commander. I wanted to know how I might help.” Ciri studied Cullen’s complexion. He still looked slightly waxen, with deep circles beneath his warm brown eyes. The withdrawal was clearly taking a toll.

“And was there anything?” Cullen asked.

“Nothing. But I’m not giving up.”

He nodded fractionally and turned to Leliana. “You were saying about Triss Merigold?”

“Triss looks much too young to have been near the age for her Harrowing when Starkhaven Circle burned, as Owain says, but she claims to be older than she looks,” Leliana said. “It’s odd, but not unbelievable. It’s certainly impressive that she evaded the Templars for ten years.”

Cullen shook his head. “I’m uncomfortable allowing another un-Harrowed mage into our ranks, but if you know and trust her, it appears I have little choice in the matter.”

"I trust Triss," Ciri said firmly. "She's a good friend of my family and a talented mage."

Leliana smiled at her, shooting a sharp look at Cullen. “Then that settles it, does it not, Commander?”

“At any rate, it’s a relief to know your parents are real people,” Josephine said. “My apologies for reading your mother’s letter. Leliana thought I would wish to know that the story you gave me and the letter aligned.”

“We’re not lying to the Chantry? Oh, thank the Maker,” Chancellor Roderick muttered.

Leliana picked up a pewter marker of a raven and idly tapped her fingers on the Free Marches. “They aren’t in Markham, though. Are they, Lady Ciri?”

“That was your fiction, not mine,” Ciri pointed out. 

Leliana smiled.

“But they _are_ a knight and a mage, yes?” Josephine asked.

Ciri nodded. “They are.”

“Then that is all that matters.”

“For now,” Leliana added.

The advisors gaining proof of her parents’ existence did put a crimp in their plan to advertise them as ‘sadly deceased,’ Ciri thought. Still, she had little interest in how Leliana and Josephine intended to handle this new wrinkle.

“Enough of this,” Cassandra said impatiently. “Markham or no Markham, knight or no knight, Ciri has been critical to our success in the Hinterlands, and recruited two new people to our cause while we were in Orlais.”

“Grand Cleric Oudine approved of her – tentatively,” Chancellor Roderick added. “I feel it’s more of a pragmatic move on her part than a belief in Divine Justinia’s proclamation. But we have the Chantry’s support.”

“That support will likely come with strings attached,” Leliana said. “Lady Ciri, what was your impression of the grand cleric?”

“She seemed stressed, overwhelmed,” Ciri said. “She said she felt the best way forward for the Chantry was through the Inquisition, that she wished to keep it from splintering further. She feared the grand cleric of Cumberland might follow in Agnesot’s footsteps.”

“Your thoughts, Josie?” Leliana asked.

Josephine frowned. "Cumberland would be a grave loss. Our support is eroded in Orlais thanks to this schism. I dread to think of what should happen if Nevarra falls prey to the same infighting. A common religion is all that ties our disparate cultures together. If we lose that in these troubled times, I fear the Inquisition will face a steep battle to win support from foreign nobility."

“I agree,” Leliana said. Her hand holding the raven token hovered over Val Royeaux, then withdrew. “We must do something about this Grand Cleric Iona.”

Chancellor Roderick stood from his chair and joined them at the table. “Revered Mother Anastasia is her direct subordinate in Cumberland, I believe. The word at the Grand Cathedral puts them at frequent odds.”

“Perhaps calling in favors to support this revered mother would be helpful,” Josephine suggested. “It may make Grand Cleric Iona think twice if even her local clerics don’t agree with her position.”

“Yet if she feels alienated from the Chantry, she may be more inclined to break away,” Leliana countered.

Cullen rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “What if we posted soldiers at the Grand Cathedral? A display of force might frighten her and others into compliance. Some of these grand clerics don’t seem to understand that they no longer have the protection of the Templars.”

Cassandra nodded in agreement, but Chancellor Roderick scoffed.

“If we do that, we’ll see her run back to Cumberland, and take her people with her. The fence-sitters will hop with alacrity. We’re meant to be united with the Chantry, not taking steps to intimidate them.”

“You’re holding back, Leliana,” Ciri said. “What do you suggest?”

Leliana sighed. “It may be best if Iona were simply no longer a problem. As it stands, she is a danger to the stability of the Chantry. A well-placed agent could ensure that danger no longer remained.”

Cassandra recoiled. “Assassinate a grand cleric? Leliana!”

“This is my job, Cassandra, like it or not,” Leliana snapped. “I see what must be done and I do it. The Left Hand is always bloodier than the Right.”

“Not this time,” Ciri said. “We’ll use Josephine’s plan, call in favors for Revered Mother Anastasia. If that fails – well, we’ll have to hope it doesn’t, won’t we?”

“We cannot afford the luxury of ideals at a time like this,” Leliana warned as Josephine placed her key-shaped marker on Val Royeaux.

"If not now, then when?" Ciri asked. "When ideals cost us nothing? It's when ideals are hardest to hold to that they're needed most. Otherwise, we just stumble from one dark choice to another, or refuse to choose at all."

“Very well,” Leliana said. “I hope you’re right.”

_As do I._

“The scouts reported that you encountered other troubles,” Cullen said. “Nobles playing their games, and an assassin.”

Ciri nodded, and she filled the advisors in on the encounter in the bazaar with le Coq, Vivienne’s setup at the salon with the marquis named Alphonse, the scuffle with Rolet Frallon and his men and the revelation of a mysterious backer, and finally, the thwarted assassination attempt just twelve nights ago. Cassandra and Chancellor Roderick interjected in places. She laid out the sketch of the assassin’s face with the tan lines outlined and the stack of letters from the Frallon estate as she finished speaking and waited for them to weigh in.

Leliana reached out and picked up the sketch. “It is uncommon, but not so much so that I can say who it belongs to for a fact. The Blanchards of Val Montaigne have a mask in this shape, as do the de Chalons and the Doucys. It was a popular shape for bards’ masks five years ago. These things come and go in style for commoners. Noble families’ masks do not. They stay the same for generations.”

“So that’s hundreds of possible bards and three noble families and their retainers and servants,” Cullen said, shaking his head. “Maker’s breath, how are we to track down an assassin’s identity in this mess?”

“Not to mention this Papillon,” Josephine said, flipping through the letters. “What do you make of this, Leliana?”

“A bard,” Leliana said without hesitation. “Many bards adopt animal motifs to maintain anonymity. The Black Fox, for one.”

“Or the Nightingale?” Cassandra murmured.

Josephine laughed at the irked look Leliana shot Cassandra, and said, “it’s common in Orlais for young nobles to put on a different mask and learn to play the Game as a bard. If this Papillon has the influence they claim, then they’re a well-placed noble, and one who’s played the Game as a bard for many years.”

“I will put my agents on these matters. Discreetly, of course,” Leliana said.

“And I will write to contacts who may prove friendlier than the nobles you’ve crossed paths with,” Josephine said. “Vicomtesse Elodie de Morreau is not particularly influential, but she’s very well-connected.”

“Further correspondence from the Grand Cathedral will most likely come to me,” Chancellor Roderick said. “I doubt they’ll be foolish enough to interfere in how we run things, but I’ve learned over the years to never underestimate the dangers of mob mentality combined with the power of bureaucracy. Lady Ciri, try not to provoke any rash responses from Val Royeaux. We do need their support.”

“What would they consider a provocation?” Ciri asked. “Because honestly, I feel like all I’m doing is running about putting out fires and dealing with other people’s messes. That’s hardly anything for the Chantry to get offended over.”

“And yet you, Messere Olgierd, Solas, and now Triss Merigold are all here, apostates and un-Harrowed mages,” Josephine said gently. “Magic that exists outside of Templar supervision is often frightening to the Chantry, no matter how pure or good a mage’s intent is.”

Ciri scoffed. “So _I_ am the ‘malign influence’ the grand cleric warned about?”

“An exception can be made for you. Even for the select few you surround yourself with. But more than that, and the Chantry will take notice,” Chancellor Roderick warned. “We may wish to reach out to the Templars to appease the Grand Cathedral.”

Ciri balked at the idea of having to deal with Lord Seeker Lucius again. He’d stood out to her as an entirely different sort of fanatic, one who’d easily fit in with the witch hunters and the Temple Guard back in Novigrad. Worse, Cullen and Cassandra were nodding in agreement. She looked to Leliana and Josephine, hoping to see some sanity in the other advisors.

“Let’s not be too hasty,” Josephine said. “We have an invitation to Redcliffe from Grand Enchanter Fiona, which gives us an opportunity to assess the mage rebellion. We have no such inroad with the Templars.”

"Yes, and the scout’s report on Lord Seeker Lucius was...concerning," Leliana said. "That is not a man we want to be involved in the Inquisition's leadership."

“We’ll have to pick something, and soon, if we wish to close the Breach successfully,” Ciri said. “But if my vote counts for anything, I want nothing to do with Lord Seeker Lucius and his ‘destiny.’”

“A problem for another day,” Leliana said. “In the meantime, I’ve received troubling reports from my scouts. Grey Wardens across Orlais and Ferelden have vanished.”

“Grand Cleric Oudine mentioned as much,” Ciri said. “Their fortress in Montsimmard stands empty. She asked us to keep an eye out.”

Leliana nodded. “There is one Warden I’ve heard news of. He’s been fighting bandits and demons in the Hinterlands, protecting the locals. Perhaps he might have the information we seek.”

“We have to return to the Hinterlands to deal with the mages in the Witchwood, and to recruit Dennet,” Ciri said. “What’s the status of his watchtowers?”

“Our soldiers built them with little trouble,” Cullen said. “Corporal Vale led the effort, I believe. He has a team of ‘irregulars’ who joined the Inquisition but stayed to help with the mess in the Hinterlands.”

“Pass on my thanks in the next round of correspondence. Leliana, we’ll look for your Warden. If that’s all?”

In response, Josephine held up her clipboard, and Leliana unveiled a stack of parchment. Ciri stifled a groan.

“Varric wants us to look into an issue with a plagiarist,” Leliana began.

Ciri settled in for a long meeting. Triss would simply have to wait.

* * *

Ciri made her way from the chantry, Marlene’s hamper of food tucked under her arm and bottle of Sepremento in her hand. Sweet and savory smells rose from the lid – boeuf bourguignon, she guessed, and some sort of apple dessert. The hamper still felt warm to the touch. Triss must have gone to Corvo Bianco right before teleporting with her horse to Haven.

She felt warm at the thought of the love her parents had put into the ‘care package,’ like they were reaching out from Toussaint to hug her from a distance. Someone, likely Yennefer, had packed half a dozen more shirts and four more pairs of trousers, as well as a week’s worth of underclothes. All were new, soft linen or lambswool, in colors that looked attractive on her. Two high-quality repair kits for armor and weapons had been tucked away at the bottom, with oil and buffing cloths and gnomish whetstones, a small hammer and pliers and a sturdy pair of scissors.

Geralt had sent along more sword oils for her. Yennefer had included a velvet pouch with a pair of cushion-cut emerald drop earrings set in white gold – utterly frivolous, but beautiful and a perfect match to her eyes. She’d carefully laid it all out, tucking the velvet pouch deep in her saddlebags to protect against thievery, and left to find her friends.

She pushed open the chantry door with her free hand, shivering at the gust of icy wind that ruffled her hair and blew down the back of her neck. The evening sun glinted off the patches of snow on the ground, and she shaded her eyes, squinting. With luck, she’d find Triss with Olgierd and the Trevelyans in the cabin, or in the tavern.

“Excuse me,” a lightly accented voice said politely.

She turned to see a handsome young man, tanned and smooth-cheeked, with dark brown hair cut much like Olgierd’s, though shorter on the top. He wore sturdy, practical armor and stood with a soldier’s erect carriage.

“Yes?” she said.

“I have a message for the Inquisition, but I’m having a hard time getting anyone to talk to me,” he said.

Ciri glanced up at the sun. This shouldn’t take too long. “You can give me your message. I’ll pass it along to the others.”

The young man smiled. “Thank you. I’m Cremisius Aclassi, with the Bull’s Chargers mercenary company. We mostly work out of Orlais and Nevarra. We’ve got word of some Tevinter mercenaries gathering out on the Storm Coast. My company commander, Iron Bull, offers the information free of charge. If you’d like to see what the Bull’s Chargers can do for the Inquisition, meet us there and watch us work.”

“We already have mercenaries in our employ,” Ciri said. “The Valo-Kas mercenary company. Have you heard of them?”

“By reputation only,” Aclassi said. “We hear good things about Shokrakar and her people. They do solid work. They always get the job done.”

Ciri felt better about the Bull’s Chargers if they were willing to praise a competitor. “Why does the Iron Bull want to work for the Inquisition?”

“He hasn’t said. You’re the first time he’s gone out of his way to pick a side,” Aclassi said. “Normally we accept contracts from whoever makes the first real offer.”

“Tell me about your commander,” Ciri said.

“Bull? He’s one of those Qunari,” Aclassi said. He gestured to his head. “You know, the big guys – with the horns? He leads from the front, he pays well, and he’s a lot smarter than the last bastard I worked for.”

“And what can you tell me about your company?” Ciri asked.

Aclassi looked proud. “We’re loyal, we’re tough, and we don’t break contracts. Ask around Val Royeaux. We’ve got references.”

“If I never go back to Val Royeaux, it will be too soon,” Ciri said, “but I’ll take your word for it.”

Aclassi grinned. “Yeah, it’s horrible there. But the nobles pay well.”

“We’ll see you on the Storm Coast, Aclassi,” Ciri said. She held out her free hand, and Aclassi grabbed it in a firm handshake.

“We’re the best you’ll find,” he declared. “You won’t regret it.”

Ciri left him behind, making her way past the spymaster’s tent and the tavern and up the stairs to the small trio of cabins. As always, Solas stood outside his cabin at the top of the stairs, watching the people below.

“I see Seeker Cassandra finally released you from the meeting,” he greeted her. “I had the pleasure of meeting your friend, Triss Merigold. She tells me she is another apostate, one who fled her Circle when it burned down ten years ago.”

“Triss never could stand to be confined,” Ciri said.

Solas smiled. “She is brave to leave behind the comfort of the familiar for the danger of the unknown. Many mages would hesitate to do as she did, alone and unsupported by her fellows. I look forward to working with her.”

“She’s interested in the lessons you’ve been giving me,” she said. “Might we resume them in the Hinterlands? Could we try a spell?”

“I don’t see any reason why we shouldn’t,” he said.

“Would you like to join us?” she asked. She held up the hamper and the bottle of wine. “I brought dinner – you’re welcome to have some.”

“Another time," he demurred. "I'll leave you to catch up with your friend without a stranger taking away from your reunion."

“If you’re sure,” she said.

“I am. Go on, _da’len_. We’ll speak later.”

She gave Solas a final smile and turned to the Trevelyans' cabin. It always felt like she was taking two steps forward and one step back with him. They progressed well enough as companions, as a mentor and student, as friends, even, but Solas had turned down every invitation to socialize so far. He was thawing, but still, he held himself apart.

The sight of Triss’ bright smile put Solas from her mind as she stepped into the cabin. Arms wrapped around her, and she laughed, hugging Triss back with her free arm.

“Wait, wait!” she exclaimed. “Let me put this down!”

Triss stepped back, and Ciri set the hamper and the wine on the hearth where a low fire burned. She looked about the room and saw that all three Trevelyans were present, as well as Olgierd – a tired but cheerful Evelyn reclined on one of the beds beside a shamefaced Maxwell, and Owain sat on his bed, elbows on his knees and a welcoming smile on his handsome face. Olgierd leaned against the wall and nodded to her, warmth in his eyes.

“I brought dinner,” Ciri said. “Rather, Triss did, straight from Corvo Bianco.”

“Yenna and Geralt were happy to send that package and letter along,” Triss said, “though they wanted me to tell you that they’ll be here in an instant if we ask.”

Evelyn got up from the bed to open the hamper, lifting out two sealed containers and a small stack of bowls and silverware. A dazhbog rune glowed dully on each lid – that explained the warmth. “Oh, that smells delicious! My compliments to your parents’ cook, Ciri.”

Ciri accepted a bowl and spoon as Evelyn dished out the boeuf bourguignon. “Marlene is an amazing cook. Which is all to the good, since Geralt is a wreck in the kitchen.”

“Just like Mother,” Evelyn laughed.

Maxwell seemed to struggle for a moment, eyes on his bowl, then he burst out, “I’m sorry! I apologize, Ciri. Unreservedly. All my plans involved you going back to the Continent after the Conclave – I never intended to cause you so much trouble.”

Ciri sighed. “You couldn’t have known.”

“But I should have,” Maxwell argued. “I should have considered it. I should have factored in the possibility that you might remain longer. The Trevelyan family profited, and your reputation suffered in Orlais – badly, as Olgierd said. That’s my fault.”

“Whatever the case, we have to live with it now,” Ciri said. “I forgive you, Maxwell. Just be more careful going forward.”

“I will,” he promised. “Believe me.”

Ciri took her bowl and sat beside Owain. He gave her a warm smile, knocking his knee against hers.

“Olgierd told us what happened in Orlais,” Owain said. “It sounded eventful.”

“That’s one word for it,” Ciri agreed. “Did he tell you about Sera and Vivienne?”

Owain laughed. “I look forward to meeting them. Well, to meeting Sera, at least. Enchanter Vivienne sounds more like Maxwell’s sort than mine.”

“Sera might not look forward to meeting you,” Ciri said. “She seemed to have a poor view of nobles. Olgierd, have they arrived yet?”

“Not yet. I expect they’ll appear in the next day or two,” Olgierd said.

Evelyn pried the cork from the Sepremento and passed it to Olgierd, taking the final bowl for herself and returning to her seat beside Maxwell.

“The salon must have been so elegant – aside from the mess with the marquis,” she said. “I was never old enough to attend parties before the Templars took me to the Circle. And after they fell, I had too many responsibilities to the mages in our care. Was it beautiful?”

“It was odd,” Ciri said. “Artificial. People there don’t look quite real in their masks. And I always had this sense that I was being watched, constantly, and that my every word was being weighed and measured. I wore a Free Marches dress and I stood out like a sore thumb, but it was better than stuffing myself into one of their ridiculous gowns.”

Evelyn looked disappointed at Ciri’s answer. Owain laughed.

“Don’t worry, Evie. There will be other parties, with better company.”

Ciri dug into her boeuf bourguignon and groaned with pleasure. The savory flavors burst across her tongue, thick and rich with the taste of beef, mushrooms, onions, and carrots stewed in a hearty red wine. She felt a sharp pang of homesickness at the taste. How was it that Toussaint, in all its pomp and courtliness, had become home in two short years? She had months left here in Thedas before she could return to her old life. But the care package helped ease the longing.

The bottle of Sepremento passed from hand to hand as they ate. Evelyn shared her less bloody tales of the healing tent, and her ongoing attempts to cajole, convince, or badger Cullen into taking the headache potion. Maxwell described his more interesting experiences working with Josephine, and the nobles in Haven he’d placated, bribed, or otherwise coerced on the Inquisition’s behalf. Owain didn’t have much to say beyond sharing his approval of the soldiers’ improvement.

Triss had a wealth of stories to share – tales of the Markham mages, of Casteldaccia, of Margarita and Keira and Lambert, and of Geralt and Yennefer. Ciri had the feeling that Triss had spoken of these things to the others already, but they were politely quiet as Evelyn dished out the tarte tatin, letting Triss’ words of the Continent carry the conversation over dessert.

As the last bite of the spiced apple tart disappeared along with the early autumn sun, Owain turned to Ciri. “You’ll be heading back to the Hinterlands soon, won’t you?”

“In the next few days,” she said. “We’ll need time to rest. We’ve been traveling nonstop for almost four weeks, with only the one night in Val Royeaux.”

“Hardly enough time for a body to think, let alone breathe,” Olgierd said. “Ifrit could use the rest. As could I.”

“You don’t have to come with me back to the Hinterlands,” Ciri said.

He raised a coppery eyebrow at her, lips twitching in a smile. “And leave you to have all this fun without me? Never.”

“I’ll be coming, too,” Triss said. “I want to see what this mage rebellion is like in person.”

“Bloody,” Olgierd said bluntly. “They wish for freedom. The Templars would deny them any such opportunity. Poor farmers suffer from the conflict.”

“Can we help them?” Triss asked.

“It depends,” Owain said. “The Chantry would have us help them right back into the Circles. And everyone else has a different idea of what freedom looks like. I like the idea of open Circles – schools for mages, with apprentices living there until their Harrowing. Some people would tear it all down. Others think mages can’t be trusted with any degree of freedom.”

“You begin to grasp the problem,” Maxwell said dryly.

“For what it’s worth, the Ostwick Circle wasn’t bad, but it would have been better if I could have come and gone,” Evelyn said. “I know I had it better as nobility, and many Circles had troubles that the Ostwick Circle didn’t. But I agree with Owain’s proposal. Mages do need education as apprentices, and the Harrowing serves a purpose.”

Olgierd snorted. “I fail to see how forcing children to face demons serves any sort of purpose.”

“Teenagers,” Evelyn corrected, “or young adults.”

“Oh, much better.”

There was a harsh edge of unease to Olgierd’s sarcasm. Having heard his story from Geralt, Ciri understood why he was so repelled by the thought of the Harrowing. She agreed. It seemed dangerous and unnecessary. She watched as his hand curled around the neck of the now-empty bottle of Sepremento and wondered if Goetia could bind and summon demons here in Thedas as it did in the Continent.

Perhaps it was better that he not try. They already suspected he was a maleficar. Any magic involving demons or blood, and they might break out the Tranquil brand.

_Then they’d learn what it’s like to face a Witcher trained by sorceresses in combat._

“Enough about mages,” Maxwell said dismissively. “Let’s have some music.”

Olgierd barked a laugh. “Agreed, better a song than a spat.”

“Will you play for us, Olgierd?” Evelyn asked.

“I’m not singing this time,” Ciri said. “I always end up singing.”

“Nay, fair is fair,” he said. “Let’s have a song from Thedas.”

In response, Owain hummed lightly, eyes on his sister, and Maxwell began to slowly clap. Evelyn blushed but gamely lifted her voice to sing.

“Too long I have traveled, soon I’ll see her smiling,  
The girl in Red Crossing I’m longing to see.   
Oh, I know she is there, daisies in her hair,   
Waiting by the chantry to marry me.

“I’ve dreamed of the kiss I stole ‘neath the arbor.  
I’ve dreamed of the promise ‘neath the old ash tree.   
Oh, I know she is there, daisies in her hair,   
Waiting by the chantry to marry me.”

As Evelyn sang, Ciri felt herself slowly listing to the side, until her shoulder pressed against the warmth of Owain’s strong arm. He smiled down at her, pressing back, and her stomach fluttered pleasantly.

She looked away, unaccountably flustered. Had it really been so long since she’d found someone attractive? And he was kind, honest and straightforward – a nicer and less complicated person than Auberon, who’d been disgusted by her human blood and only saw his daughter Lara in her face. She was reluctant to disparage the dead, but he was far and away a better person than Mistle.

In an ideal life, she could pursue him. But once she finished her work here, she’d leave, and she would likely never see him again. She couldn’t stay, and he’d be left behind.

She straightened, the pleasant flutter tightening to a sullen pit. _Damn it all – this is a complication I don’t need._


	17. Warden and the Witchwood

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ciri recruits a reclusive Grey Warden, then ventures into the Witchwood to deal with the apostates there.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> beta-read by brightspot149. Thank you!

Two days of rest. That’s all they got before they had to head back to the Hinterlands. Sera arrived in Haven the day after them on a gray mare with red ribbons tied in her mane, and she eagerly added herself to their traveling party. She spent the day poking around the small village, avoiding the ‘important people’ while she stuck her nose in their belongings.

Ciri used the time to catch up with Triss and to do some maintenance on her armor and swords. She saw Olgierd infrequently; she'd passed Josephine's office and seen him returning Varric's book only to borrow another, one with an embossed map of Thedas on its cover. They seemed at ease with one another, smiling and chatting freely, and she was glad to see it. He could use a few more friends.

She hadn’t spent much time with Owain, either. After her realization the other evening, she’d had a flighty moment of idiocy, thinking she should never spend time with him again. In truth, he was simply busy, as was she. But every time she passed the field, he saw her, and he never failed to raise a hand in greeting, smiling warmly in her direction. And she never failed to return his smile.

She’d simply proceed as friends and colleagues, as they had been. That would work, wouldn’t it? She wasn’t a foolish child languishing over an unobtainable man. She had no rash romantic fantasies to throw herself into the sea to solve the problem of her pining. She’d just carry on, and things would resolve themselves. They had to.

The two days of rest had passed quickly. Before Ciri knew it, they were saddling their horses again and riding out of Haven, well-wishing cries ringing in their ears. Their group was larger this time with Triss and Sera along. Ciri had initially worried that they’d have the same problem they’d faced before, of awkward silences and faltering conversations. But Triss was at her most convivial, doing her best to integrate with the Thedosians without trouble, and Sera was garrulous and free-wheeling. Conversation rolled along, and the trip back to the Lake Luthias camp went easily.

Ciri was heartened to see that the fighting had died down in the Hinterlands after they’d dealt with the Templars. The rebel mages were nowhere to be seen – likely they’d retreated to the Witchwood with no Templars to skirmish with – and the farmers had cautiously begun to return to their homes. Signs of devastation still scarred the landscape, but there was hope.

They rode into the peaceful lakeside camp around midday. Scouts hurried to take the horses to the picket line, unsaddling them and setting out a fresh trough of water. Malika greeted them with a cheerful grin and a bounce in her step, moss-green eyes lively beneath the hood of her uniform.

“Your Handiness!” she hailed Ciri. “Did you know there’s an entrance to the Deep Roads nearby?”

Varric groaned as Malika handed Ciri a heavy iron key with a sharp geometric pattern down the shank. “Leave me out of it. I’ve had enough of darkspawn and the Deep Roads for a lifetime.”

“Where is it?” Ciri asked.

Malika gestured vaguely beyond the treeline, toward the main body of the lake. “Behind the big waterfall. The Valo-Kas mercenaries found the key in the villa you sent them to clear. Shokrakar said she’d send one of her people to meet you at the camp by Dennet’s farm with a report.”

“Any news of the Grey Warden?”

“He’s up there by the lake,” Malika said. “Living out of an abandoned summer cabin. We’ve been keeping a distant eye.” She shivered. “He’s... _burly_. Like the Maker took a dwarf and made him big. Real big. Are you recruiting him? _Will_ you recruit him?”

Ciri laughed. “We just had questions. But maybe.”

"Yes!" Malika cleared her throat. "I mean. We learned some things. His name's Blackwall. When you cleared out the Templars and the mages retreated, bandits moved in. He seemed to take it real personal. We're guessing he was a recruiter or something because he rallied the local boys, said he'd teach them to fight. He called them conscripts, but I'm guessing he didn't mean it."

“Wardens are picky when it comes to their recruits,” Varric said. “Hawke and Blondie practically had to beg that Warden in the Deep Roads to take Junior.”

“Anyway,” Malika said, “he’s up there with three farm boys, preparing to make a stand against the bandits.”

“Then there’s no time to waste,” Cassandra said.

“I don’t fancy the chances of one warrior and three farm boys against a band of hardened cutthroats,” Olgierd added. He rested a hand on the hilt of his saber. “Best we lend him a hand.”

One last check of weapons and they turned and left the camp on foot, heading up the overgrown path to the lake. Ciri was eager to finally meet a Grey Warden. It would be interesting to see how similar they were to the Witchers of the Continent. Perhaps he’d be willing to join the Inquisition, as Malika hoped.

They rounded the final bend in the path, and the lake unfolded before them, shady trees and calm blue water. At the far end, a tall, narrow waterfall thundered down. She made a mental note of its location – they’d come back at a later date. They forded the lake at its shallowest part, water sloshing past their knees, and made their way to a small islet where a brightly-colored ram frolicked.

Ciri led the way, single-file, down a long, narrow dock that connected to the other side of the lake. There, she could see the cabin Malika had spoken of. A man in a dark green gambeson and worn breastplate strode back and forth before three young men in peasant clothing, all holding wooden shields and listening with nervous intent to the man’s words. He spoke with authority, as a military officer might advise new recruits.

She stepped off the dock and walked toward him. “Are you Warden Blackwall?”

He spun toward her, face like thunder. “How do you know my name?” he demanded as he stormed up to her.

Triss cried a warning, and Alzur’s Shield and Blackwall’s physical shield overlapped in front of Ciri, knocking an arrow askew.

“Never mind,” Blackwall snapped as bandits materialized from behind the trees with loud cries. “Help or get out. We’re dealing with these idiots first.”

Ciri unsheathed _Zireael_ and leaped to engage the nearest bandit. The one to her right went up in flames as she parried and struck. Sera whooped as the one to her left dropped with an arrow through his eye. Her opponent fell, and she turned to find another.

The skirmish was both quick and bloody. Smarter bandits might have turned back, seeing the numbers on their side, but they were well-armed and angry. Ciri cut down a man lunging for Blackwall and dodged a blow from another attacker. He stiffened and fell with a choked-off cry, Cassandra’s sword through his chest.

In the aftermath, Blackwall looked troubled. He stopped by one of the bandits and shook his head, then looked to the three farm boys, still clutching their shields and weapons, miraculously uninjured.

“Good work, conscripts,” he said, “even if this shouldn’t have happened. They could’ve – well. Thieves are made, not born. Take back what they stole. Return to your families. You saved yourselves.”

The farm boys fell over themselves to thank him, and he watched them go with a glint of paternal pride in his eyes. Then he turned back to Ciri and her companions, and the paternal pride was replaced by a flinty look.

“You’re no farmer,” Blackwall said. “Why do you know my name? Who are you?”

Now that the fighting was over, Ciri was able to take a moment to examine Blackwall as closely as he was looking them over. He was, as Malika had said, burly, with shoulder-length black hair and a thick black beard, both threaded with gray. His face was tanned and weather-beaten, his cheeks ruddy. His gray eyes were wary beneath strong brows.

She chose to be frank, judging that honesty would put him at ease. “I’m Ciri. Inquisition scouts told us your name, Warden Blackwall. We have some questions for you about the disappearance of your fellow Grey Wardens.”

“Yes,” Cassandra added. “The timing of their disappearance makes us wonder if it has anything to do with the explosion at the Conclave.”

Ciri shot her a quelling look. She’d wondered that herself briefly, but they hadn’t discussed it. She knew that on the Continent, the different Witcher schools were in principal supposed to be neutral. But the Witchers of the School of the Cat were little better than assassins for hire, and Letho of Gulet, a Witcher of the School of the Viper, had killed two kings on Emhyr’s orders. It wasn’t out of the question that the Grey Wardens were involved.

Blackwall looked genuinely shocked at the suggestion. “Maker’s balls, the Wardens causing the explosion? That can’t be. No, you’re asking, so you don’t really know, do you?”

“Then tell us,” Ciri prompted him. “Whatever you know might be useful.”

“First off, I didn’t know they disappeared,” he said. “But we do that, right? Soon as the Blight’s over, the job’s done. Wardens are the first thing forgotten. But I’ll tell you this for sure: no Warden blew up the Conclave. Our purpose isn’t political.”

That sounded right to Ciri. “No one’s here to accuse anyone,” she assured him. “We’re just looking for information. Why haven’t you left like your brothers and sisters?”

“I go months without seeing other Wardens,” Blackwall said. “I travel alone, recruiting. Not much interest in joining as the Archdemon’s been dead a decade, and no need to conscript as there’s no Blight coming.”

“Yet you called the farmers ‘conscripts,’” Olgierd observed. “Then let them go. How does that square with recruiting?”

“Treaties give Wardens the right to take what we need. These idiots forced this fight, so I ‘conscripted’ their victims.” Blackwall shook his head. “They leaped at the chance. I taught them to fight and told them to stand. Next time they won’t need me.”

The Warden looked down at the bodies of the bandits scattered about, and his shoulders slumped. “It’s a pity it came to this. Grey Wardens can inspire, make you better than you think you are. In another life, some of these men might have been heroes.”

Ciri felt herself warming to this gruff warrior. Empathy for the enemy was a rare trait.

“So where’d they all go, then?” Sera asked. “And why are you still here, Beardy?”

Blackwall shrugged. “Maybe they returned to our stronghold at Weisshaupt? I don’t really know. Can’t imagine why they’d all disappear at once, let alone where to. As for me, maybe a runner got lost or something. Maybe there was a new directive and I missed it. My job was to recruit on my own. Planned to stay that way for months.”

Ciri nodded slowly, reluctant to part but out of questions. “Thank you, Warden Blackwall. I don’t think we need anything else from you. However….”

“Aye?”

“I can’t say for sure that we’ll uncover the mystery of your missing Order any time soon, but we’d be happy to have you join us,” she said. “Can you put your recruiting on hold and stand with the Inquisition a while?”

He thought a moment, then nodded firmly. “Aye, I’d be glad to. We both need to know what’s going on, and perhaps I’ve been keeping to myself for too long.”

Ciri reached out, and he shook her hand. “I’m glad to hear it,” she said sincerely. “Is there anything you need to collect? A mount? We’re camped just beyond the ridge there. You’re welcome to come with us, or to meet us back at Haven.”

“I have my pack in the cabin,” Blackwall said, jerking his thumb at the building in question. “No horse. And I’ll take you up on your offer.”

They waited as Blackwall retrieved his pack, then made their way back down to the camp. Blackwall introduced himself around, and Cassandra struck up a conversation with him as they walked. She seemed to share Ciri’s admiration for Grey Wardens. Blackwall deflected her praise, demurring that many Wardens had hardly lived ‘righteous’ lives.

“Still,” Cassandra said, “it is never too late to do better, and become more than what you are.”

“That is the hope,” Blackwall agreed as they entered the camp.

Ciri cast a sidelong look at Olgierd. He wore a curious expression on his face as he watched Blackwall – half caution, half recognition.

“What is it?” she asked him quietly.

He shook his head. “It can keep. Better I tell you later, away from the others.”

Whatever it was, it seemed to trouble him. She’d find the time to ask him later.

Malika greeted them with a bright grin. “You’re even better up close,” she said to Blackwall. “Wow.”

He looked at Ciri uncertainly.

“Blackwall, meet Scout Malika,” she said, privately amused. “Malika, there’s a time and a place.”

Malika just grinned harder. “Malika Cadash,” she said, shaking Blackwall’s hand. “I’m Her Handiness’ fourth favorite dwarf. Formerly of the Carta, now an upright citizen. I read _Conscripted By Love_ , you know. Is it true what it said about Grey Warden stamina?”

Sera guffawed, and Blackwell’s ruddy cheeks turned a shade darker. “The Grey Wardens are dedicated to protecting people from the Blight,” he said sternly. “We give of ourselves so that others don’t have to.”

Malika’s grin fell. “Oh, shit – did I offend you? I didn’t mean to offend you.”

“That said,” Blackwall continued, mouth twitching, “stamina on the battlefield does translate to stamina elsewhere.”

Sera laughed harder. Malika’s eyes lit up, and she smiled widely, a blush dusting her cheeks.

“If that’s all, Scout Malika,” Cassandra interrupted, “someone needs to go to Horsemaster Dennet with a request for a mount for Blackwall. If he’s reluctant, let him know that his watchtowers are completed, and the wolves have been dealt with.”

“A mount,” Malika repeated. “Right.” She saluted Ciri and left the camp, tossing Blackwall one last smile before she left.

“Hold a moment,” Blackwall said. “What’s ‘Her Handiness’ supposed to mean?”

“You really have been on your own,” Varric said. He waved a hand at Ciri. “Meet Ciri, our very own Hand of the Maker.”

“I'm not," she said hastily at Blackwall's wide-eyed look. She held up her hands in front of her defensively. "The title was foisted upon me. I had no say in the matter. I'm not the Maker's Hand."

"Aye," Blackwall said, still staring. "I have been alone too long."

* * *

Supper was, as always, mutton stew. They chatted as they ate, telling stories of past adventures and making light jokes. Malika had returned a short time ago with a bay gelding for Blackwall, and she passed on Dennet’s thanks for their work. As the sun began to set, Sera let out a light belch and stretched in her seat.

“Phwaw, ‘scuse me. Oi, Ol-geerd, got a question for you.”

Olgierd raised a coppery brow at her, smiling slightly. “I’m all ears, my dear.”

“You havin’ a go at my ears?” she said indignantly, then laughed. “Only joking. I know they’re big. Shut up. So I was pokin’ around Haven, right, and you wouldn’t believe the things some people have hidden in their stuff. Smutty books, bedroom toys, letters with all sorts of secrets – Ciri has a pair of baubles at the bottom of _her_ bag. But you. You’re weird.”

“Do tell,” Olgierd said. “How am I ‘weird?’”

“Well, a nob like you should have gold and fancy trinkets, a big purse of sovereigns. You just have a dried-up old rose. Wot’s that about?”

Ciri watched as the smile slipped from Olgierd’s face and grief touched the corners of his eyes. “It’s a memento of my wife,” he said quietly. “The last thing I ever gave her. I’ve nothing else of her, save my memories.”

Sera looked momentarily abashed. “Shite. Sorry. Thought maybe you were just rubbish at collecting flowers or somethin’.”

Olgierd laughed softly. “Nay, I’ve just the one.”

A scout came around to collect their empty bowls, and Solas stood, gesturing to Ciri and Triss. “You wished to try a spell,” he said. “Now is as good a time as any.”

Blackwall looked at Ciri in confusion. “You’re a mage? But you fight with a sword.”

“I am,” she said. “As is Olgierd.”

His gaze traveled around their group, from Solas to Triss to Olgierd and back to Ciri. “I don’t have anything against mages, nor their rebellion. Everyone deserves a second chance.”

“Good to hear,” Varric said. “From the way things are shaking out, we’re likely looking to ally with the rebel mages.”

“The Chantry won’t be pleased,” Cassandra said, shaking her head in disapproval.

“The Chantry is currently the least of my concerns,” Ciri said. She stood, dusting off her knees. “Where did you want to do this, Solas?”

“Over here, by the water.” He led Ciri and Triss past the tents to the shoreline. Olgierd and the others followed at a distance.

“You’ve been doing your meditative exercises for weeks now,” Solas said. He raised a hand, and a faint light gathered under his skin. “You’re familiar with the practice.”

In response, Ciri raised her unmarked hand and pulled on her magic. She could feel the rush, the intent, as the Source within demanded she use it to teleport, but she held it back carefully.

“Yes, good,” he praised. “Now–”

“What does it feel like?” Triss asked.

“It wants to move,” Ciri said. “Like lightning in a bottle. I pull it up, and it thinks I wish to step between. Holding it still is difficult.”

Triss nodded. “Go on.”

“Curious,” Solas said. “I should have asked. Of course your natural gifts would interfere. But no matter. Now, the next step is to take your magic and shape it into a spell. We’ll begin with the most basic, the arcane bolt.”

With Solas’ calm voice in her ear guiding her through the process, Ciri felt for the shape of her magic, the prickly energy of it, the rush of potential, and she took just a pinch and molded it into a small, dense sphere. It vibrated in her hand, still invisible to the naked eye.

“Now release it,” Solas ordered her.

She did so, and it shot from her hand with dizzying speed, a bright white streak of light, and buried itself deep in the cliff face opposite them. She whirled to face Triss, beaming. “Did you see? I did it!”

“I saw,” Triss said. She smiled. “Yenna would be proud of you.”

“Very well done, _da’len_ ,” Solas said. “Though that was much more force than one usually puts behind an arcane bolt.”

“Did I do it wrong?” Ciri asked. From her spot at the edge of the water, she could just barely see the deep hole in the rock on the far side of the camp that her spell had left.

“Not at all,” Solas assured her. “Many powerful mages have difficulty altering the strength of their spells when they start out. The ancient Elvhen were known for their great feats of magic, and the power behind their spells was immense. Delicacy and precision are learned, not innate. You will get there.”

Sera called out from her vantage point several feet away. “Wait – that stupid rumor was true? Great. Don’t go getting too elfy on me, ‘just plain Ciri.’ I like you normal, even with your magic.”

“I’ll do my best,” Ciri said lightly. Privately, she thought that she’d be in trouble if she took to wearing squirrel tails like the Scoia’tael or raiding worlds for human slaves like the Red Riders. “Thank you, Solas. Truly.”

“It was my pleasure,” he said. “Would you like to try another?”

“I – perhaps tomorrow. I had a thought about how to deal with the mages in the Witchwood, and I’d rather we did it sooner than later.”

Cassandra looked up at the darkening sky. “The day is nearly gone. If it cannot wait, then we should be off.”

“No,” Ciri said, and braced for disagreement. “I mean to take Olgierd, Triss, and Solas. The rest of you should meet us at the camp by Dennet’s farm in a few hours with the horses.”

“Not a chance!” Cassandra protested. “It’s far too dangerous. These are the same apostates who wreaked havoc at the Crossroads when we first came, if you’ve forgotten. They will not hesitate to attack you.”

Olgierd spoke up. “I’ve my doubts about that, Seeker. We haven’t seen any sign of them this time. Their fight was with the Templars, not us.”

“We have to give them a chance,” Triss said. “They were invited here, weren’t they? The Templars chased them, refused to let them go in peace. Maybe they’ll listen if we approach them as fellow mages.”

“I don’t like this,” Cassandra said, shaking her head. “This is the very definition of the ‘malign influences’ Grand Cleric Oudine warned against.”

Ciri cut Triss off before she could argue further. “Trust me,” she said. “Please.”

As Ciri expected, Cassandra backed down, though her frown spoke volumes. “Very well. But we will come after you if you aren’t at the camp by midnight.”

“That should be enough time,” Ciri said, “provided the scouts have located the mage hideout in the Witchwood.”

In point of fact, they had, and armed with their location, Ciri set off with Olgierd, Triss, and Solas, leaving Cassandra and the others behind to manage the horses and the bags. As they walked down the steep path toward the main road, Ciri judged that the four of them qualified as ‘alone’ enough to broach the subject of Olgierd’s earlier concern.

“You were troubled before,” she said quietly. “What was it about Blackwall that bothered you?”

Olgierd glanced at Triss and Solas, then sighed. “He hates himself.”

She blinked, surprised. “How can you tell?”

“Like recognizes like.”

“Owain said that many Wardens were once criminals,” Ciri said. “Perhaps it’s something from his past.”

“Perhaps,” Olgierd echoed. “Whatever it is, the memories ride him hard.”

They walked on in silence for a minute, then Ciri reached out and elbowed Olgierd.

“What was that for?”

“‘Like recognizes like?’” she repeated, glaring up at him.

He chuckled, rubbing his ribs where her elbow had dug in. “Apologies. I meant nothing by it, Ciri. I’m better than I was. I do appreciate the second chance your father gave me – and with you around, I’ve little chance to brood.”

“ _Good_.”

Triss looked curious but didn't voice the questions Ciri could see in her eyes. Instead, she asked, "What exactly are we doing with the mages?"

“Talking, hopefully,” Ciri said. “They can’t stay where they are. There’s too much bad blood; the farmers have honest grievances against their presence.”

“It’s the Templars’ fault,” Triss said hotly.

“They instigated the conflict here, certainly,” Solas said. “But these mages didn’t shy away from a fight, nor did they consider what might happen if the farmers and peasants were caught up in their hostilities.”

“Desperate people do terrible things to survive,” Triss said. “Is it that surprising that they defended themselves, even when innocents were caught in the middle?”

“Surprising? Not at all,” Solas replied. “Merely disappointing to see.”

“We’ll see what they have to say for themselves,” Ciri said. “Let’s not judge them beforehand.”

They crossed the main road, now quiet in the aftermath of the Templars being routed from their stronghold. A flicker of light shone at the edge of the woods, and they made their way toward it. As they passed the treeline, the flickering light resolved into a warm campfire. A man and a woman sat around it, staves within arm’s reach. The younger of the pair, a lanky, pink-cheeked teenage boy with a shock of white-blond hair, leaped up as they approached.

“Stay back!” he cried, brandishing his staff. “Leave! I – I’m dangerous!”

“Easy, lad,” Olgierd said soothingly. “We’re all mages here.”

“Prove it!”

In response, Olgierd summoned flames from the campfire, and before he could extinguish them, Triss called them from his hand to hers. Solas merely gestured to the staff on his back. Ciri stepped through the ether, moving from one side of the campfire to the other and back.

The young man gulped, his knuckles white on his staff. “Are – did you come from Redcliffe? We won’t go back.”

The older woman spoke up, drawing Ciri’s attention. She had graying brown hair and olive skin, and her dark eyes were calm. “Peace, Jance,” she said in a slight Orlesian accent. “I don’t think our visitors mean any harm. Do you?”

“Not at all,” Ciri said. “We came to find the mages in the Witchwood. We only want to talk, I swear.”

She nodded thoughtfully and stood, grabbing her staff. “Smother the fire, Jance,” she ordered her companion. “We’ll take our new friends back to the cave.”

She and Jance led the way deeper into the woods, past an abandoned hut and a strange, primitive-looking stone statue. “I am Letia,” she introduced herself. “Formerly Senior Enchanter Letia. This is Jance. He was an apprentice before the Circles fell.”

“I’m Ciri,” Ciri said in return. “These are my friends, Triss Merigold, Olgierd von Everec, and Solas.”

“No ranks?” she inquired.

“You find yourself in the company of four dastardly apostates, former Senior Enchanter Letia,” Olgierd quipped.

“Ah, then you’ll fit right in,” she said with a smile.

The woods grew darker, thicker, the canopy overhead dense and tangled. Odd totems dangled from branches. A distinct chill permeated the air, and strange spires of ice protruded from the forest floor. The mages had clearly marked out their territory as best they could – any idiot who ignored the signs and blundered past would be met with a faceful of fire.

“Here we are,” Letia announced.

They’d arrived at a cave marked by an unnaturally frozen pond and ringed by glowing, glyph-covered boulders. The entrance gleamed and crackled with the color of flames. By one of the boulders, two sellswords rested.

“Hail, Letia!” one of them called. “Who’re these?”

“Guests of mine,” Letia said. “Fellow mages looking for a chat with our people.”

“Aye, fine,” the other said. “Shout if anyone needs killing.”

Letia led the way to the cave entrance and touched the tip of her staff to the glowing barrier. A blue-white light emanated from the spot where they met, radiating out until the barrier had melted away. “Come, come,” she said, waving them after her.

The inside of the cave was quite cozy, to Ciri’s surprise. Lanterns set on ledges gave the interior a warm glow. There was little in the way of proper furniture, but she saw cushions and blankets, and a number of bedrolls neatly tucked in a wheelbarrow against the cave wall. Perhaps a dozen mages, men and women of all ages, humans and elves, all looked up as Letia and Jance entered with them at their heels.

A brown-skinned elven woman with a thick black braid stood, scowling. “What are you thinking, bringing strangers here?”

“They’re mages, Melora,” Letia said calmly. “Apostates. They say they only want to talk.”

“Apostates?” Another mage stood. This one was human, a man. “Then you weren’t with the rebellion.”

For some reason, they all seemed to relax at that. Ciri exchanged looks with Triss and Olgierd. "No," she said slowly. "We intend to speak with the Grand Enchanter soon, but I thought we should address your concerns first."

The man came closer. He was lean and pale, a bit taller than average height, with shaggy black hair and a short, full beard. His dark eyes were full of skepticism as he looked them over. “Not to look a gift mage in the mouth, but how is it you intend to address our concerns? And what makes you think you have the pull to see Grand Enchanter Fiona?”

“We’re with the Inquisition,” Ciri said honestly. “After we took care of the Templars, we saw that the mages in the Witchwood weren’t causing any trouble. I – we – wanted to meet you, not fight you.”

“I believe in your cause,” Triss added. “We all do.”

Melora, the elven woman, laughed harshly. “That’s rich. The rebellion doesn’t even believe in our cause. We were ‘politely’ encouraged to leave – our magic wasn’t pretty, safe, or useful enough to sell to the public as worthy of freedom.”

“I taught the Entropy school in the Ghislain Circle,” Letia said. "We have some here who are quite talented in Entropy or Spirit magic. We have a spellbinder, we used to have a necromancer – Melora here got her hands on a forbidden tome and learned to shapeshift. And Levyn–"

“I’m just an itinerant healer,” the man – Levyn – interrupted. He rubbed his beard with a rueful look. “Any rumors to the contrary should be ignored.”

“And you grew a beard because you’d be so welcome in Redcliffe,” Melora scoffed.

“Like I said,” Levyn said. “Rumors.”

“I’ve run into my share of those,” Ciri said. “Terrible things.”

Levyn smiled. It made him look years younger. “A bit of advice. If a charismatic bald mage ever offers to give you private lessons, run the other way. It’ll only end in tears.”

“Meet my tutor,” Ciri said dryly, “Solas.”

Solas inclined his head, looking as amused as Ciri felt. “A pleasure.”

Levyn laughed and stuck his hand out to shake. “As long as you aren’t a power-hungry blood mage, I suppose it is. And the rest of you are?”

Ciri introduced them around again, and Letia and Levyn pointed out the other ten mages who’d otherwise kept quiet. She did her best to keep them straight in her mind, but she suspected Triss would remember them better than she would.

“Now,” Letia said. “What is it the Inquisition wants of our humble group?”

“ _I_ want you safe and free,” Ciri said. “The Inquisition disapproves of us being here, but I talked them into it.”

“You know you’ll have to relocate,” Triss said, looking around at the cozy cave. “The locals suffered too much from the fighting between you and the Templars to keep turning a blind eye.”

“We’ve discussed it,” Letia said. “But where to go, that’s the question. The Hinterlands were ideal before the Templars arrived.”

Levyn leaned against the wall of the cave, arms crossed. “There used to be over forty of us. It made for cramped quarters, but I’d prefer that to twenty-eight dead mages. The Templars did that.”

“The Inquisition did some of that, too,” Melora said accusingly.

“That fight at the Crossroads between the mages and the Templars was getting farmers and refugees killed,” Solas said. “We stepped in to save innocents. I always called out to the mages to stay their fire. None ever did.”

“Staying their fire would make them easy fodder for the Templars,” Letia sighed. “Enough, Melora. You know some of our brethren had a certain disregard for bystanders.”

Melora huffed, but let it go.

“Have you had any trouble with abominations?” Triss asked.

The silence that fell was telling, and for a long, uncomfortable moment, no one would meet their eyes. Then Levyn spoke up.

“Once,” he said. “Templars cornered Mileva on the West Road by one of the cabins. Jance was there. Jance?”

Jance shook his head furiously.

"I'll tell it, then,” Levyn continued. “Jance said they grabbed her by the arms, ripped her robes. They were dragging her into the cabin, laughing. So she let a demon in and she tore them apart. She killed eight Templars and two mages before she was stopped."

“Stopped?” Triss asked, face pale.

Melora gave her a scornful look. “What do you think happened?”

That explained why Jance was so jumpy. The more she heard of Templars, the worse she thought of them. And Cullen and Chancellor Roderick thought it was a good idea to reach out to them, to ally with them? No. Never.

“May the soil lie light upon her grave,” Olgierd murmured. “Poor girl.”

“We’ve been without Templar oversight for years,” Letia said. “Mileva is the only one we lost to a demon. Levyn has been on his own for a decade now, and he’s none the worse for it. You’re mages. You know that what they teach about possession isn’t entirely true. We don’t need to constantly be on guard once we’re trained.”

Ciri knew nothing of the sort, but she could appreciate her position. “So what would you like to do?”

Letia stroked her jaw with a long finger, a thoughtful look in her eyes. “This Inquisition seems rather liberal, taking on apostates and giving them authority to negotiate. Perhaps our people might join yours.”

“I was warned that the Inquisition couldn’t keep turning a blind eye to apostates and un-Harrowed mages,” Ciri admitted. “It’s not the Inquisition itself that’s the problem, it’s the Chantry oversight.”

“Well, that fucks me completely,” Levyn said. “And Jance.”

“There’s an apprentice in the Inquisition who’s doing research,” Triss said. “I met her when I arrived in Haven. A young woman named Minaeve. Jance might be all right.”

“But not me.” Levyn shook his head and looked at Letia. “You should go. You’ll never get another chance like this.”

“Levyn, no!” Melora protested. “We stick together, that’s the plan.”

“Plans change, Mel. Don’t worry about me. I’ll figure something out.” He straightened and nodded at Ciri. “I’ll walk you back to wherever you’re staying – most of the way, anyway. I don’t want to be seen if I can help it.”

“We’re camped out by Dennet’s farm,” Ciri said. “Do you know the area?”

He smiled. “I know a shortcut.”

They made their goodbyes and followed Levyn out of the cave and past the frozen pond and glowing boulders, back toward the eerie statue. He veered sharply right at a narrow crevice, leading them through a skinny gorge with walls so high the moonlight barely reached them.

A strange wuffling sound came from up ahead, and Ciri froze. “What’s that?”

Levyn kept walking. “It’s just a druffalo. Come on. If we keep walking, it’ll follow us back to the farms.”

Sure enough, a hulking horned creature with thick, shaggy fur and beautiful, liquid black eyes met them as they rounded the bend, and it wuffled again, then lowed. Triss giggled.

“It’s cute, for such a big guy.”

“Don’t make it mad,” Levyn advised. “They’ll trample you flat. And the horns aren’t just for show.”

The druffalo fell in behind them, wuffling and lowing, and their strange band walked on to the end of the gorge. It came out at a short waterfall, where the rift with the despair demon had been. Levyn turned to them and said, “I’ll leave you here. Thank you for coming, really. I know Letia was getting worried about what we were going to do next.”

“Take care of yourself, Levyn,” Ciri said. “I’m sorry I can’t help you.”

He shrugged. “I knew it would end this way. But thanks. Maybe we’ll see each other again someday.”

“You called yourself an itinerant healer,” Olgierd said. “The people at the Crossroads could use one, if you’ve a mind to lend a hand.”

“Perhaps.” Levyn looked thoughtful. “My face isn’t really welcome in these parts, but it’s been years. I would like to help if I can.”

He disappeared back into the gorge, and they continued on, fording the shallow stream with the hulking druffalo at their heels and climbing the bank to the camp. Cassandra met them at the outskirts, pacing back and forth with her hand on her sword hilt.

“Finally!” she exclaimed. “I was about to set out for you – where did you get that druffalo?”

Ciri beckoned a scout over. “Find where this poor druffalo belongs,” she said. “I’ve a feeling it’s been missing a while.”

“Well, Seeker, we’ve good news and bad news,” Olgierd said as the scout led the druffalo off. “Though I’m not sure which you’ll think is which.”

"I didn't recruit apostates," Ciri said, and she smiled at the narrow-eyed look of suspicion Cassandra gave her.

“Speak plainly, Lady Ciri. My patience is thin,” Cassandra warned her.

Ciri laughed. “Thirteen mages, Cassandra. Well, twelve and an apprentice. One of them is a senior enchanter. They had some insight into the politics of the mage rebellion as well.”

She wished she could count Levyn as the fourteenth. Something told her she’d see him again, though.

“Tell me what possessed you to recruit so many mages,” Cassandra said. “And explain what you mean about insight into the mage rebellion.”

Ciri looked beyond Cassandra to see that Varric, Sera, and Blackwall were awake and armed as well, sitting around the campfire and listening in. “All right,” she agreed. “It seems there won’t be any sleep until we do.”


	18. Redcliffe and Magisters

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ciri travels with her companions to Redcliffe. Time has been damaged, and Fiona doesn't remember them. One Tevinter mage seems to have ill intent, and another warns her of a conspiracy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> beta-read by brightspot149. Thank you!

Cassandra wasn’t in the camp when Ciri awoke the next morning. Varric gestured in the direction of Dennet’s farm with his spoon, bowl of porridge in one broad hand.

“She’s off negotiating for the horses,” he said. “Have some breakfast.”

Ciri accepted a bowl from a scout. Cassandra would have woken her if she’d been needed, wouldn’t she? They’d argued long into the night about the mages, but in the end, Cassandra had seemed to accept their word about the mages in the Witchwood, however reluctantly. Ciri had sensed a certain tension when they’d turned in for the night, however. The matter was not yet settled, not entirely.

“Hello the camp!” someone shouted, and Ciri turned to see a tall, horned woman in hunting leathers approaching on foot, bow slung over her back.

Herah Adaar, that was her name. Triss watched her approach with wide eyes. Ciri didn’t blame her for staring. She had, too, when she first saw Herah. The Vashoth looked like the offspring of a sylvan or a succubus and an oversized human.

“Morning,” Herah said shortly as she stalked to the fire, holding out her hands to the flames. “Can I get some of that? I didn’t eat before I left the villa.”

A scout hurriedly scooped up a bowl of porridge and held it out to her.

“That’s better.”

“Malika said Shokrakar would send someone with a report,” Ciri said. “What do you have for us?”

“Mmf.” Herah swallowed a mouthful of porridge. “Lyrium smugglers were working with a Carta clan. Pulling lyrium out of the Deep Roads entrance in Lake Luthias, transporting it to Hafter’s Woods, and shipping it out from there. We figure rogue Templars were buying it up or something. That scout gave you the key?”

Ciri patted her belt purse. “I have it.”

“We killed off the guards outside the door to the Deep Roads and put some planks across it. If there are Carta in there, it’ll stop them for a few days,” Herah said. “They had an outpost on the East Road, too – took care of that easy enough. Helped your people set up camp out there. Don’t go too far down that passage, though. There’s a nesting dragon in the valley. Ashaad got singed taking a look around.”

Sera, hair still a rumpled mess from sleep, lit up at that. “Wot, really?”

“No,” Ciri said immediately. “We’re not fighting a dragon.”

“Piss.”

“There were ruins up in that area with one of those orb things,” Herah said. “Kaariss found an elf woman in them. She was pretty bad off. Looked like she’d been fighting demons by herself. We left her in the camp with your Dalish scout.”

“I would like to investigate these ruins,” Solas said.

“And help the woman,” Triss added.

“We’ll do both,” Ciri promised.

“We’ll stick around another week, make sure the smugglers aren’t getting any ideas about coming back,” Herah said. “Then we’ll head back to Haven for another assignment.”

Ciri nodded. “Was there anything else?”

Herah dug into the pouch hanging from her belt with her free hand and withdrew a folded sheet of parchment and a small sack that clacked gently. “Found more of those shard things your scouts said to keep an eye out for. And we made a map of Hafter’s Woods. The exes mark the rifts.”

Ciri took them from her, passing off her porridge to Olgierd. “We’ll close them before we leave the Hinterlands again,” she said. From the looks of the map, there were only two to be concerned about.

“And watch out for bears,” Herah added. “They’re fucking everywhere.”

“We’ll take care,” Ciri said, re-folding the map and sticking it in her purse along with the little sack.

“Seeker’s returning,” Olgierd said quietly as he handed back Ciri’s breakfast.

Cassandra looked rather pleased with herself as she marched back into camp. “The horsemaster has agreed to send his mounts to the Inquisition. We’ve acquired his services as well. He’ll travel with them to Haven, and stay to oversee their care and training.”

“How’d you pull that off?” Varric asked. “I didn’t think anything was going to pry the old man from his farm.”

“I appealed to his sense of duty as an Andrastian,” Cassandra said.

There was something to her voice, something to the set of her jaw as she looked around at Ciri and her gathered companions – at Olgierd specifically – that put Ciri on edge. No, the matter of the mages wasn’t over. Merely delayed. Somehow, in some way, they’d pay for Ciri’s decision.

“Thank you for taking care of that,” Ciri said.

Cassandra nodded shortly. “It was no trouble, Lady Hand.”

“ _Ciri_ ,” she insisted.

“I think not,” Cassandra said. She looked troubled. “I need the reminder. You are the Hand of the Maker, despite your protests – and despite your unorthodox choices. I must respect that.”

Ciri felt a pang at her words. She’d thought they were becoming friends. Clearly, she’d pushed her too far. But what other choice did she have? She came here to assist Triss with the mages. Even with all that had happened, she hadn’t lost sight of that.

“Not my business,” Herah said. She handed off her empty bowl to a scout. “Thanks for breakfast, Your Worship. I’m heading back to my people.”

Ciri bade her farewell, casting a quick look around the camp. Everyone was up and awake, either eating or finished with breakfast. The scouts were strapping on weapons and heading out for the day. The requisition officer handed off orders to one of the departing scouts, who shook her head in disbelief.

“Puzzle boxes, ser?”

“To entertain the troops,” the requisition officer replied.

“Yes, but drakestone, ser? Doesn’t that explode?”

“Don’t set it on fire, and it’ll be fine.”

Ciri turned back to her companions. “We’ve a few options,” she told them. “Redcliffe lies south of here. We could take Grand Enchanter Fiona up on her invitation to meet with the mages, learn more about the rebellion’s goals and plans. The rifts in Hafter’s Woods need to be dealt with. And Triss and Solas both wish to go to the East Road, for the elven woman and the ruins.”

Triss looked torn. “It sounded like this woman needs help, but if the mercenaries got her to the camp, she’ll probably be all right without us. The rebellion is where we need to be. The more people we can help, the better.”

“Merigold’s right,” Olgierd said. “And I’ve questions for them about their policy on booting out their fellow mages, unwelcome magic or not.”

“The ruins have sat empty for hundreds of years, possibly longer,” Solas agreed. “They can wait another day.”

“But – demons," Sera protested. "We could go do something useful and kill demons. You already recruited a bunch of robes. Why go to Redcliffe to make nice with more of them?"

“To be fair, there’s nothing to Hafter’s Woods but smugglers and bears,” Blackwall said. “And it sounds like your mercenaries have dealt with the smugglers quite nicely.”

Varric just shrugged. “Whatever’s good, Songbird. We’ll have to deal with the rebellion one way or another.”

“I would prefer to consult with the advisors back in Haven first,” Cassandra said, frowning. “But it is up to you. If you’re certain you wish to meet with the Grand Enchanter, then I will go with you to make certain no treachery is intended.”

“Be on the lookout if you wish, but I doubt Grand Enchanter Fiona intends to cross us,” Ciri said. “She seemed more interested in aligning her cause with ours.”

“Which is exactly the sort of thing we do not need,” Cassandra said. “The Chantry will not let this slide, Lady Hand.”

“If the Chantry wanted a say, they would be out here doing this work themselves,” Ciri retorted. “We go to Redcliffe.”

She knew this would make things harder for Grand Cleric Oudine, but what other choice was there? Certainly not the Templars. And doing nothing wasn’t an option. No – it pricked at her conscience to throw this world’s religion into upheaval, but doing the right thing often came at a cost.

Cassandra grimaced but didn’t argue further, so Ciri turned her attention to finishing her breakfast. One of the remaining scouts took the empty bowl off her hands, and she ducked inside her tent to change into her armor and grab her weapons. She returned promptly, ready to face whatever problems the day would throw her way. Cassandra stood apart from the others, beside the stand for Leliana’s ravens. As Ciri watched, she tied a message to one of the birds’ legs and sent it winging its way westward.

Ciri made her way to the picket line, pleased to see that the scouts had seen to saddling their mounts for the day’s ride. Zephyr pushed her velvety nose into Ciri’s hair, exhaling loudly.

“Hey, Zeph,” she said fondly, rubbing her neck. Her sweet mare wasn’t quite as odd as Geralt’s Roach, but she was certainly more loyal and intelligent than the average horse.

She untied Zephyr’s lead from the picket line and mounted up. “Come on,” she said. “There’s a shortcut through the gorge. One of the mages showed us last night.”

They followed her back across the shallow stream and through the high, narrow gorge. It looked different in daylight, less oppressive. Sunlight touched the tops of the worn gray stone sides. The occasional bright red flowering bush pushed its way out of thin soil.

The cave in the Witchwood stood abandoned as they rode past it – the glyph-covered boulders were dark, the ice melted. The mages must have left in the dark of night, or as the sun rose. Ciri could only hope that they’d reach Haven without incident, and that Cullen and the Chantry wouldn’t pose a problem once they arrived.

The dark canopy of the Witchwood thinned and gave way to daylight once more, and Ciri looked out upon the far end of the East Road. A handful of huts dotted the fairway, and in the far distance, she could see a broken arch, a watchtower of some sort. Nearer, to her left, the gated town of Redcliffe stood. Inquisition scouts watched over a quiescent rift, hands on the hilts of their weapons.

Ciri rode to the nearest hut and slid from Zephyr’s back, looping her reins around a fence post. “Let’s take care of that.”

They approached on foot, weapons ready. Ciri hadn’t made it within thirty feet of the rift before it woke with a crunch, shooting out spikes of light. The scouts drew back with startled exclamations.

She darted in to strike at the nearest terror demon. It screeched and dove beneath her. _Fuck_. She stepped across the battlefield, pulling herself through the ether – except no, something pulled her back. Magic clung to her, something heavy, cloying, dragging her back to the here and now. She stumbled out, limbs trembling, and the terror demon shot up from beneath her.

Blackwall shouted and made his way to her aid with painful slowness, as if he were wading through molasses. His sword thrust took ages to connect. But the demon was trapped in the mire with them. Blackwall gripped her by the arm and yanked her out of the bubble of time.

Things returned to normal with dizzying speed. She nodded her thanks and raised a hand to the rift, disrupting it and whatever madness it was causing.

All the demons fell eventually. The fight was a tricky one – more than one of them fell victim to the bubbles of time that sped up or slowed down. Finally, she sealed the rift, and it ground shut, taking its time anomalies with it.

“What in Andraste’s name was that?” Cassandra demanded.

“I don’t know,” Ciri said quietly. She had an intense urge to bathe, to scrape her skin raw, to remove the feel of the magic from her body. “But it stopped me from using my magic to step across the battlefield as I normally would.”

Solas approached, eyes alight with speculation. “The Veil is weaker here than in Haven. And not merely weak, but altered in a way I have not seen before.”

Sera blew a raspberry at him. “The Veil is fat here.”

Solas ignored her. “Odd magic is at play. I suggest we investigate.”

Scouts opened the gates for them, and they walked in to find another hooded scout waiting, a cautious expression on his face.

“We spread word the Inquisition was coming, but you should know that no one here was expecting us.”

Ciri exchanged puzzled looks with Cassandra and Solas. “No one?” she asked. “Not even Grand Enchanter Fiona?”

The scout shook his head. “If she was, she hasn’t told anyone. We’ve arranged use of the tavern for the negotiations.”

A skinny young elf in brown robes with feathered pauldrons bustled up anxiously. “Agents of the Inquisition, my apologies! Magister Alexius is in charge now but he hasn't yet arrived. He's expected shortly. You can speak to the former Grand Enchanter in the meantime."

For a second time, Ciri found herself exchanging looks with her comrades. A magister of Tevinter? The _former_ Grand Enchanter?

“Oh, this gets better and better,” she muttered.

Cassandra looked grim. “If the maleficarum of Tevinter have taken over–”

“Then it’s even more important that we help them,” Triss said. “We can’t just leave them to Tevinter’s mercy.”

Cassandra hesitated, then nodded shortly. “Agreed.”

The skinny elf looked relieved at their words. “The former Grand Enchanter is in the tavern,” he said, pointing. “Just up the path.”

Ciri thanked him and walked off, her companions falling into step with her.

“I mislike this,” Olgierd said under his breath. “Look at them.”

She did, and she could see what he meant. The mages milling about the town should have been at ease. Instead, their movements were quick and furtive, their voices hushed. These were the ones who should have been safe and secure, hidden away from the conflict. Instead, they seemed terribly frightened. Worse were the few who strode about proudly, triumph written across their faces. Had some of them actually welcomed the magister?

The inside of the tavern was dim and occupied by only a handful of people. The volume dropped as they entered, everyone turning to see who the newcomers were. Grand Enchanter Fiona stepped forward, a frown creasing her face.

“Welcome, agents of the Inquisition,” she greeted them, hands folded tightly in front of her. “What brings you to Redcliffe?”

Ciri tensed. “Grand Enchanter, _you_ invited us back in Val Royeaux.”

“Me? But I haven’t been to Val Royeaux since before the Conclave,” Fiona said. Her frown deepened. “Regardless of what brought you here, the situation has changed. The free mages have already pledged themselves to the service of the Tevinter Imperium.”

“An alliance with Tevinter?” Cassandra spoke up. “Do you not fear all of Thedas turning against you?”

“Nay, Seeker,” Olgierd said. “You heard her. This is no alliance. This is servitude.”

“It is slavery,” Solas said severely. “I understand your fear, Grand Enchanter, but you and your people deserve better.”

Fiona ignored them, seeking Ciri’s eyes. She looked resolute – tired, grieved, but resolute. “As one indentured to a magister, I no longer have the authority to negotiate with you.”

“Then tell me who does,” Ciri said, “so I can pack them back off to Tevinter without you.”

“Brash young girl,” Fiona said softly. “It will not be so easy.”

The door slammed open behind them. Ciri turned to see two men stride in, both dressed in reddish-orange hooded outfits with long, spiked vambraces. They were clearly father and son by the shape of their chins and cheekbones, though the son had a sickly cast to his light olive skin, and dark circles beneath his eyes.

“Welcome, my friends!” the older of the two said. His smile didn’t reach his eyes. “I apologize for not greeting you earlier.”

“Agents of the Inquisition, allow me to introduce Magister Gereon Alexius,” Fiona said.

“I have taken command here. The southern mages answer to me,” Magister Alexius stated. His eyes roved over their party, then narrowed in on Ciri hungrily. “You are the survivor, yes? The one from the Fade? _Interesting_.”

Ciri’s skin crawled. “What exactly are your intentions with the free mages of Thedas?”

“Purely charitable, I assure you,” Magister Alexius said. “I have taken on the southern mages personally, as their protector and overseer. They have no legal status in the Imperium until they have served for a period of ten years. Supporting them will be a considerable expense, but one I’m happy to pay if it helps them escape the brutality of the Templars.”

That sounded highly suspect.

“Where are the Arl and his men?” Blackwall asked. “Arl Teagan would never abandon Redcliffe.”

Alexius’ smile slipped into a smirk. “There were tensions growing. As we did not want an incident, the Arl was encouraged to leave.”

Ciri grabbed Cassandra’s wrist and squeezed, sensing an imminent outburst. This was worse than she’d thought. Tevinter – star of Evelyn’s tales of slavery, human sacrifice, and blood magic – had driven a Ferelden Arl from his seat and enslaved hundreds of mages. Someone had meddled in unknown magic to damage the Veil and make Fiona forget their meeting.

If this magister was even halfway intelligent, he already knew she suspected him. And she knew that he meant trouble. But from what she knew of politics, half the game was smiling politely at your enemy and waiting for them to make the first mistake.

She slid one of her grandmother’s best smiles on her face and made to sit at an empty table. “We came to negotiate with Fiona, but I suppose you’ll do. We need mages to close the Breach.”

“Down to business? What a pleasure to meet a reasonable woman,” Alexius said. “Felix, would you send for a scribe, please?” He joined her at the table. “Pardon my manners. My son, Felix.”

The son bowed and walked off.

“How many of my mages do you think you will need?” Alexius asked, leaning back in his chair.

“As many as you can spare,” Ciri declared. “We’ll need equal the amount of power as it took to create the Breach.”

“There will have to be–”

Alexius broke off as his son slowly staggered toward the table. Ciri stood, and Felix collapsed in her outstretched arms. As he pulled away, apologizing, Ciri felt him press a slip of parchment into her hand.

The meeting ended abruptly, with the magister hustling his son out the door, arm wrapped protectively around his shoulders. Fiona followed in his wake.

Ciri looked down at the parchment. “Come to the chantry,” she read aloud, keeping her voice low. “You are in danger.”

“Ooh, mysterious!” Varric said.

“Bet it’s a trap,” Sera scoffed.

“Either way, we’ll find answers,” Ciri replied. “Come on.”

As they began to walk away, Triss gasped. Ciri looked around to see what distressed her friend, and her heart dropped. Standing placidly by the window was a pale brunette man with bright blue eyes and a livid sunburst brand on his forehead. Triss broke from their group and approached him.

“Are you all right?” she asked gently.

“My needs are sufficiently met,” he said with an even voice. He looked at them with dispassionate eyes, then back to Triss. “The magister will approve of you. He does not approve of me.”

“Why doesn’t he approve of you?” Triss asked.

“He does not like to be reminded of what mages can become,” the Tranquil said.

“This shouldn’t have happened,” Triss said. Her voice shook. “I’m so sorry they did this to you.”

“The letters were against the rules,” the Tranquil said. “I remember that I was happier before, but I do not find this state disagreeable.”

Olgierd swore. “Seeker, if you’ve the gall to defend this….”

“The Rite of Tranquility should only be used as a last resort,” Cassandra said defensively. “I am aware of its overuse in certain mage Circles, but I had not thought that it was being used punitively.”

“Letters, Seeker?”

“I _heard_ , Olgierd.”

“You’re the first Tranquil mage I’ve seen in Redcliffe,” Triss said. “Why?”

“The magister says that all Tranquil must leave Redcliffe,” the Tranquil replied. “I do not know where the others went.”

“Where will you go?” Triss asked.

There was a shadow of emotion on the Tranquil’s otherwise calm face. “I do not know. Who would take me in?”

“We would!” Triss said fiercely. “The Inquisition would help.”

Another shadow of emotion. “I am an alchemist. The Inquisition must require potions. I could be of assistance to your cause.”

“Yes,” Ciri interjected. “Please. Find one of our scouts and ask them to escort you back to Haven. Tell them that Ciri asked them to do it.”

“Thank you,” the Tranquil said. “While one lives, it is good to believe there is still a use for one’s talents.”

“What’s your name?” Triss asked. Ciri scolded herself for forgetting to do so.

“Clemence,” the Tranquil said.

The name rang a distant bell. “We'll see you back at Haven, Clemence," she said and walked off toward the exit.

They huddled together outside the tavern, heads bent to keep the conversation from carrying.

“We can’t all go to the chantry,” Ciri pointed out. “All of us together? It will look suspicious.”

“Agreed,” Cassandra said. “But you cannot go alone. I will go with you, Lady Hand.”

“You, Solas, Triss, and Olgierd,” Ciri compromised. “Varric, Blackwall, and Sera, will you go through Redcliffe, take a look around? Ask questions? Sera, I need you especially to poke your nose where it doesn’t belong.”

“I can do that easy,” Sera said.

“We’ll meet back at the gates?” Varric suggested.

“Unless you find something pressing,” Ciri said. “Then come straight to the Chantry.”

Blackwall, Varric, and Sera left – Blackwall with a firm nod, Varric an easy smile, and Sera an irreverent salute. Ciri led those left up the hill past the clusters of tense, quiet mages, past the shops and the homes, to the chantry that stood alone. It was the sturdiest building in Redcliffe, constructed of light gray quarried stone and heavy timber beams. Its curved peaked roof reminded Ciri strongly of the prow of a Skelligan ship.

She paused by the door, listening, but the thick wood blocked any sound from traveling in or out. If it was a trap, there was no way to know. They’d simply have to chance it. She tried the handle and found it unlocked.

“Let's see who sent this note," she said quietly and opened the door.

She stopped abruptly once inside, hand flying to the hilt of her sword at the sight before her. A mage – for who else would have a staff? – bludgeoned demons with his weapon in front of another rift, demonic ichor spattering the hem of his tailored robes with each blow.

He cast a glance over his shoulder and called out, “Think you could lend a hand?”

Ciri unsheathed her sword and rushed to help, her companions fast behind her. She swung at a shade, and it blurred away, too fast for her to follow. She darted a look at the floor of the chantry and saw the faintest outline of green circles – time bubbles.

 _Shit_.

“It’s like the last one,” she called out. “Mind where you step.”

She raised her marked hand to disrupt the rift. The sooner this was over, the better.

In the end, after the demons lay dead and the rift had cracked into nonexistence, the mage turned to her with a curious light in his eyes.

“Fascinating! How does that work?” he asked.

“It’s sympathetic magic,” Ciri explained. “The magic in my palm is the same as the magic in the rifts. I forge a connection between the two and will it shut.”

He laughed, face alight with good humor. “How extraordinary.”

The mage was exceedingly handsome, warm brown skin and prominent cheekbones, a sharp jaw and perfectly coiffed black hair. He had an impeccably groomed mustache and goatee, and his robes were an interesting combination of silks and leather, with buckles everywhere.

“Watch yourself,” Cassandra warned. “He’s another Tevinter.”

“Suspicious friends you have,” the mage said, voice still light.

“We just came from meeting Magister Alexius,” Ciri told him. “You can hardly blame her.”

“Well then, allow me to put your minds at ease,” the mage said. He sketched a shallow bow. “I am Dorian of House Pavus, most recently of Minrathous. Magister Alexius was once my mentor.”

“I’m Ciri – Morhen,” she added. “These are my friends and companions, Triss Merigold, Olgierd von Everec, Solas, and Cassandra Pentaghast.”

“A true pleasure,” Dorian Pavus said.

“Alexius ‘was’ your mentor,” Olgierd said. “But no more?”

“We had a falling out,” Dorian said dismissively.

“I was expecting Felix to be here,” Ciri said.

“He’ll come,” Dorian said. “He was supposed to give you the note, then meet us here. But if he had to fake ill as I suspect he did, then Alexius is likely being a mother hen. It’ll take Felix a while to shake him loose.”

“Did you send the note?” Triss asked.

“Yes,” Dorian said. “Look, surely you can see the danger here. Even without the note.”

“The danger to the mages is obvious,” Triss said.

“As is the danger to Ferelden,” Cassandra added.

A ghostly echo of that cloying, heavy sensation outside the gates of Redcliffe crawled over Ciri’s skin as she met Dorian’s eyes. “No,” she said. “It’s the magic, isn’t it? Alexius did something. He tampered with time.”

“You catch on quick,” Dorian said. “That’s how he stole the Grand Enchanter out from under you. To reach Redcliffe before the Inquisition, Alexius distorted time itself.”

Ciri’s gut clenched. “There’s no possible way that’s safe.”

“It’s not,” Dorian said. “You saw this rift – the way it sped some things up and sped others down. Soon, more rifts like this will appear farther and farther away from Redcliffe. The magic Alexius is using is wildly unstable. If he’s not stopped, it will unravel the world.”

“That’s fascinating, if true,” Solas said.

"I believe you," Ciri said and watched relief cross Dorian's handsome face.

“Good,” he said emphatically. “I helped develop this magic. It should never have seen the light of day. When I was still his apprentice, it was just theory. Alexius could never get it to work. What I don’t understand is why. Ripping time to pieces just to indenture the southern mages?”

Felix spoke up from behind them. “He’s not doing it for them.”

Dorian brightened immediately. “Took you long enough! Was he suspicious?”

“No,” Felix said, shaking his head. “But I shouldn’t have faked being ill. I thought he’d be fussing over me all day. My father’s joined a cult,” he said to Ciri. “Tevinter supremacists. They call themselves ‘Venatori.’ And I know this for certain: whatever he’s done for them, he’s done it to get to you.”

“That makes no sense,” Ciri said. “What’s the point of damaging time and enslaving the mage rebellion just to get to me? Aren’t there easier ways to do that?”

Felix shrugged. “I can’t explain how a cult thinks. But they’re obsessed with you. Perhaps it’s because you survived the Temple of Sacred Ashes?”

“They may see you as a threat,” Dorian suggested. “You can close the rifts. Maybe there’s a connection.”

“If the Venatori are behind the rifts, or behind the Breach, then they’re even worse than I thought,” Felix said.

Ciri thought to ask Felix why he turned against his father, but she understood. Fathers were difficult. Duny wasn’t real, Emhyr was a tyrant whose plans for her nearly ruined her life, and Geralt was a Witcher who hadn’t known what to do with her at first. Poor, ill Felix was a brave man.

“Thank you,” she told him sincerely.

“It’s the right thing to do,” Felix said. “For his own sake, you have to stop my father.”

“We will,” Ciri promised.

“You know you’re his target now,” Dorian said. “Expecting the trap is the first step in turning it to your advantage.”

“That shouldn’t be too difficult,” Olgierd said dryly. “We’ve a talent for upending plans and foiling plots.”

Dorian nodded. “Best of luck to you, then. I can’t stay in Redcliffe. Alexius doesn’t know I’m here, and I’d prefer to keep it that way. But whenever you’re ready to deal with him, I want to be there. I’ll be in touch.”

“Stay safe, Dorian,” Felix called after Dorian as the handsome mage began walking away.

“You too, Felix,” Dorian replied. “Try not to get yourself killed.”

Felix shook his head, smiling slightly, then turned back to Ciri. “I’d better get back to Father before he starts to worry. You should leave Redcliffe soon.”

“We will,” Ciri said. “We’ll need to talk to our advisors about how to handle this. Thank you again, Felix. I know this can’t have been easy.”

“No,” Felix agreed. “But I’ve never been good at choosing the easy path. Take care, and I’m sure we’ll meet again.”

He followed Dorian out the small side door, leaving Ciri standing with her three friends and Cassandra in the empty chantry.

“Trust Tevinter to come up with magic that could destroy the world,” Cassandra said with disgust. “It would not be the first time.”

“Dorian and Felix seemed sincere in their desire to stop this,” Ciri pointed out. “And if Dorian helped create it, then he’s the perfect person to help undo it.”

“That is an argument in his favor,” Cassandra said grudgingly. “Though only just.”

Triss looked fierce. “We can’t let Alexius get away with this.”

“We won’t,” Ciri said. “I promise, Triss.”

“You said earlier that the time distortions prevented you from using your unusual Fade step,” Solas said. “Do you have any theories as to why?”

 _Yes. Perhaps_. “No,” she said.

His lavender-gray eyes peered deep into hers for a long moment. “It is strange,” he finally said. “Perhaps we’ll learn more of it together.”

“Perhaps,” she echoed.

She took a final look around the chantry – they’d left it in quite a state after their battle with the demons. There was nothing to be done about that, though, and it was past time they met up with Varric, Sera, and Blackwall. “Let’s find the others and see what they have to say.”

Varric and the others were lingering just outside the door rather than by the gate, grave expressions on their faces.

“What is it?” Ciri asked, heart lurching. “Has something happened?”

“There’s something you’ve got to see,” Varric said in a low voice. “Come with us.”

He led the way back down the hill, the three of them filling in her group on the people they’d spoken to and the things they’d found. Sera had told a one-eyed farmer about the brightly-colored ram out by Lake Luthias. Blackwall had met an old elven widower who couldn’t make his yearly journey out to place flowers on his wife’s grave. And they’d spoken to a number of mages – Hanley D’Urvain of Cumberland, Linnea, Lysas of Ansburg, and Connor Guerrin of Kinloch Hold – most of whom expressed fear and uncertainty over Fiona's deal with Alexius.

Their journey ended by the docks in front of a small shed with a surprisingly sturdy lock on its door. Varric twisted the handle and it creaked open, and with a furtive glance over his shoulder, he slipped inside, beckoning Ciri to follow.

She stifled a gasp. An entire wall was covered in shelves filled with skulls, and each right eye socket held a glittering white-blue gem. The thing from the Lake Luthias camp – dozens of them, right here.

“They’re called Oculara,” Blackwall said gruffly. “See for yourself.”

He held out a letter, and she took it from his hands, a nebulous dread creeping up her spine. “ _Alexius was quite clear in his orders. We must scour the countryside to find more of the shards…”_

She read it through once, then twice, hands shaking. “This –” Her voice failed her. She tried again. “This is why Clemence didn’t know where the other Tranquil were?”

Triss grabbed the letter and skimmed it. “Bastards!”

“Another thing to hold them to account for,” Olgierd said. “Whoresons. There’s naught to be gained from harming an innocent.”

“Aye,” Blackwall agreed. “We’ll put an end to their schemes.”

“Too late for these poor bastards, though,” Varric said. “Shit.”

Ciri had to look away from the shelves of skulls and their staring, glittering eyes. All of space and time at her fingertips, and she’d failed to save these people. And now it was too late. _I’ll avenge you_ , she promised.

“Let’s go,” she said, leading the way back out of the shed. “We still have enough time left to get to the other end of the East Road before it’s dark.”


	19. Last Survivor and First Demand

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ciri meets the young First of Clan Virnehn and hears a chilling tale that reminds her of a demon from the Continent. The Chantry is angered by her recruitment of the Witchwood mages and makes a demand. Someone makes a choice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> beta-read by brightspot149 -- thank you!

The ride to the camp at the other end of the East Road was a short one, held up only by another rift. Thankfully, this one didn’t have any sort of strange time-warping magic surrounding it, and the demons were dispatched quickly and without much trouble. With the rift safely closed and the danger passed, they rode on, still alert for signs of trouble.

“Shem,” Mahanon greeted Ciri as they rode into the camp in the ravine. Another scout cleared her throat loudly, and he rolled his eyes. “Your Worship. What brings you our way?”

“One of the Valo-Kas mercenaries mentioned a woman found in the ruins around here,” Ciri said. “She said she was badly injured – fighting demons? We came to see what we could do for her, and to inspect the ruins.”

Mahanon nodded. “Belette, get their horses. I’ll show them to Mihris.”

“Aye, fine,” the scout who’d cleared her throat said grudgingly. “But only because that stubborn girl only relaxes around you.”

Ciri dismounted, passing Zephyr’s reins to Scout Belette. Triss, Solas, and Olgierd weren’t far behind her as she followed Mahanon. The rest of her companions trailed after them. He led them to a tent pitched some distance from the others, with its own small campfire. Just outside the tent flap, leaning against a full burlap sack, was a battered and bandaged young elven woman, her right arm splinted and tied to her chest in a sling.

She wore the tattoos of the Dalish across her face, strong lines that swept across her forehead and down the sides of her pale, angular cheeks. Her eyes were the lightest green Ciri had ever seen, and she seemed far too young for the short gray hair she sported. _Then again, my hair started to go white at fifteen._

Mihris fixed those pale eyes on Ciri. “Well met,” she said, a deep well of caution in her voice. “My name is Mihris. My thanks to your scouts for assisting me. I underestimated how many demons I would face within the ruins.”

“It looks like they patched you up fairly well,” Triss said. She knelt by Mihris’ side and extended a hand. “May I?”

Mihris nodded shortly, and Triss began a careful examination of her injuries. “This is a clean break, luckily. Did they give you anything for it?”

“Aye, elfroot. Yesterday, and this morning.”

“What were you doing out in the ruins, _da’len_?” Solas asked.

Mihris looked askance at him, brow furrowed. “I heard tell of Elvhen artifacts that can measure the Veil. I thought if I activated it, I’d have warning of when and where rifts formed.”

“We know the artifacts you speak of,” Ciri said. “There was one at the cultists’ fort, and another by Dennet’s farm. We activated both of them.”

“How did a shem and a flat-ear manage that?” Mahanon asked skeptically. “That’s the People’s heritage, not yours.”

“ _Ma del_ ,” Solas said. “But you are young. By now you will have heard of Ciri’s ancestor. It is her heritage as well.”

Mahanon scoffed. "I heard. The human who claims an Elvhen ancestor. First they take our lands, then they take our lives, and now they try to take our legacy? I don’t know what she is, but she’s no elf.”

 _I’m not Elvhen!_ The exclamation stayed locked behind her teeth. Behind Mahanon's anger, Ciri saw real hurt, and a dull, unsurprised resignation. _This is just how it goes_ , his eyes said. She cursed herself for having volunteered Lara Dorren’s name to begin with.

“I’m sorry,” Ciri said quietly. “I don’t mean to take anything from you. Ancestry and magic aside, you’re right. I am more human than elven. All I want to do is help, to set things right.”

“The Dalish have heard that before.”

Mihris reached out with her good hand and patted Mahanon’s shoulder. “Let it go, _lethallan_. You, Ciri, was it? How did you activate the artifacts?”

Ciri held out her marked hand to Mihris. “Something in this magic resonates with the artifacts – the same way it resonates with the rifts in the Veil.”

It lent credence to her suspicion that the Veil was Elvhen. If the artifacts were created by the same people, or even the same person, then it was no wonder they echoed with Veil magic.

Triss sat back on her heels, finished with her examination. “What were you doing out there alone? Where are your people?”

Mihris hesitated. “I was – am – First of Clan Virnehn. The Keeper sent me to investigate.”

“ _Ma harel, da’len_ ,” Solas interrupted. Ciri could hazard a guess as to what he said given the way Mihris’ already pale face went ashen.

“A-aye.”

“Leave her be,” Mahanon barked, glaring at Solas. “Can’t you see she’s been through enough?”

Ciri knelt in front of Mihris. She looked into those pale green eyes, doing her best to project sincerity. “Whatever drove you here alone, we can help. That’s what the Inquisition is for.”

Mihris stared back for a long moment, then looked away. “I want your word,” she said abruptly. “As their holy person. My vengeance was stolen from me. I want your word you’ll help me get it.”

“Who wronged you, Mihris?” Ciri asked, voice low.

“The demon Imshael,” she replied, a snarl on her lips, “and Ser Michel de Chevin.”

The tale unfolded in fits and starts, Mihris’ voice faltering several times as she told her story. A Keeper versed in blood magic, desperate to learn the secrets of the ancient Elvhen and their path of enchanted mirrors. A teenage First, too young and inexperienced to contradict him. A powerful demon of desire, one of the Forbidden Ones of legend, summoned and bound. And an empress, a chevalier, an elven handmaiden, and a wandering Dalish who stumbled across their clan as they fled a forest full of possessed trees.

“Keeper Thelhen ordered the empress and her champion bound,” Mihris said. “Not that it did any good in the end. Celene made promises of an alliance, of helping the People if we helped her. But the promises of the Orlesians are easily broken. Her handmaiden, Briala, wanted our help for the city elves, but what did we care for the flat-ears?” She scoffed at herself. “The world is small when you never leave your clan.”

Tears filled Mihris’ eyes as she recounted how Ser Michel escaped his bonds and struck down the clan’s best warriors to flee with Celene, and she bared her shoulder to show the scar he left when he cut her down, too.

“He broke the wards holding Imshael back,” she said bitterly. “And the demon killed everyone but me. Imshael found my survival amusing. He let me live so I could chase after Ser Michel for vengeance.”

Her story grew a little vague then – Ciri was unsure how Imshael stayed hidden until Felassan banished him, but she didn’t press for details. She recounted how Gaspard came across her, injured and angry, with another nobleman and a mage, and how she led them into the Eluvian network after Celene and the others. How they agreed to settle things with a duel between Gaspard and Ser Michel, and she and the mage secretly sabotaged Ser Michel with magic until the mage was killed.

“In the end, Briala forced Ser Michel to forfeit,” Mihris said. “She knew his secret. She knew everyone’s secrets. She claimed the keystone and the Eluvians for the elves of Orlais and sent them all away, and took me with her on the promise that I help any city elves I come across. A small thing to agree to after everything.”

“And what were their secrets?” Olgierd asked.

Mihris looked up at him with wary eyes. “The chevalier is a commoner with an elven mother. His noble credentials are false. And the empress faked an assassination attempt on her life to secure her throne. Briala’s parents were killed in the plot.”

“The empress would never do such a thing!” Blackwall protested.

Mihris shrugged, then winced as the movement jostled her broken arm. “Celene didn’t deny it. She said she was young, that she had to do it.”

“And have you been helping city elves, _da’len_?” Solas asked. His eyes were sharp with interest in her tale.

“I’ve been alone for a year,” Mihris said. “I tried to find a clan to take me in, but most thought me cursed. City elves were kinder. I’ve shared with them what little I had, but always moved on. Sometimes I was able to offer my skills with healing. I don’t know what to do for Briala – she wanted me to tell the Dalish to help city elves, but they turned me away.”

“I could write to my clan in the Free Marches,” Mahanon offered. “My cousin died in the Conclave. We need a First. And Keeper Istimaethoriel isn’t superstitious like some of the others you meet at Arlathvhen.”

The look of cautious hope on Mihris’ face was almost too much to bear. She was so achingly young to have survived so much. Ciri knew full well the pain of such loss and trauma as a teenager. It was like looking into a mirror that opened into the past.

“You’re welcome to stay with the Inquisition while we wait for a reply to Mahanon’s letter,” she said. “You needn’t join if you don’t want to, but the invitation stands. I’d be happy to have you with us.”

“Your Templars won’t try to lock me up?” Mihris asked. “I’ve heard tales of mage Circles. Templars are no better than chevaliers when it comes to the Dalish.”

Ciri didn’t bother to check to see what expression Cassandra was making at the thought of inviting another apostate into the organization. “Everyone is welcome,” she said firmly. “Mages are a valuable part of the Inquisition, as are elves.”

“It would be nice if you stayed a while,” Mahanon told Mihris. “I haven’t seen another of the People since Ellana died. It’s just suspicious shems and flat-ears – the scouts aren’t so bad, though.”

“City elves,” Mihris corrected him quietly. “Not flat-ears.”

He snorted. “You sound like my cousin.”

“I’ll stay,” Mihris said, meeting Ciri’s eyes. “Just until we hear from Mahanon’s clan. Thank you – Lady Hand.”

“Please don’t call me that.”

Ciri stood and turned back to her companions. Solas had an odd look in his eyes. When Mihris had first named Imshael, he’d cut a swift glance at Olgierd, and as the story progressed, he watched him closely, as if expecting some sort of reaction out of him. When none came, he looked to Ciri, the strange expression vanishing as if it had never been there.

“We should go to the ruins and locate the artifact, _da’len_ ,” he said.

Mahanon scoffed. “She’s a human, even if she does call one of the Elvhen her ancestor. Not that you’d know any better.”

“Ah,” Solas said, deeply sarcastic. “I’d forgotten that the Dalish were the arbiters of all knowledge. She is my kin, even if you will not claim her.”

“Pfft. You’re both frigging stupid,” Sera scoffed. “Ciri’s people-people, not _the_ People, or whatever that’s about.”

“It’s always a pleasure to be argued over,” Ciri sighed. “The ruins?”

Mihris pushed herself to her feet, biting off a gasp of pain. “Your word, Your Worship – Ciri,” she reminded Ciri. “I deserve my vengeance.”

Her Keeper had been an idiot to bind such a powerful demon. And had her clan not been so insular and antagonistic toward humans, Ser Michel might not have lifted his blade in the first place. But Mihris was right. Both of them had wronged her, stolen lives that could never be returned.

“If our paths ever cross, I’ll bring them to justice,” Ciri promised. “You have my word.”

“ _Ma serannas_.”

As they left the camp, Ciri wondered at Solas’ strange antipathy toward Mahanon and Mihris – an antipathy he didn’t seem to have for her. _A mystery for another day. Perhaps he’ll teach me Elven, and I’ll figure out some mysteries myself._

* * *

The being with Avallac’h’s face greeted her that night from within a sprawling labyrinth of silver mirrors, all of them tall enough and broad enough for one of the Aen Elle to see himself in from head to foot.

“They are Elvhen in design,” Avallac’h said, gesturing to the mirrors. “A grand empire needed no roads when one could step through an Eluvian in the Tirashan and exit in the Arbor Wilds.”

So these were Eluvians. Had the magic faded or been forgotten for them to fall so thoroughly out of use? “Is this one of the wonders you showed them?” she asked.

He smiled and began walking the path, forcing Ciri to either catch up or be left behind. She hurried to follow him.

“The Elvhen learned many things from spirits, and spirits from the Elvhen,” Avallac’h said. “Tell me, what do you make of Imshael?”

“He's nothing like the demons we've been fighting," Ciri said. "He sounds powerful, vindictive." Mihris' tale gave her an uneasy feeling, like she'd heard it before. Over two bottles of wine in Corvo Bianco, with Geralt as the storyteller.

“Once, spirits were the only inhabitants of this world,” Avallac’h told her. “Few remember such a time. Only the very old, and the very powerful. They made room for the Elvhen before they claimed that name. Some of their brethren wished to remind them who showed them such wonders to begin with when they grew too proud. The Forbidden Ones, they called them.”

Ciri shivered. “Do I need to worry about them coming after me?”

“They would not seek you out deliberately,” Avallac’h said. “But tread lightly. Some may desire more from you than for you to stay in Thedas.”

Her marked hand twinged at his words. “I don’t want to stay.”

“Then you shouldn’t tether yourself, _Zireael.”_

His words made no sense. How had she tethered herself? She glared at the back of his head. For someone who talked so much, he could be annoyingly reticent when it came to information she actually needed. _Not that I’d remember it if he told me_.

“Why did I think of a fishing net when I touched the artifact today?” she asked, changing the subject. The image had flashed through her mind as the device lit up beneath her hand.

Avallac’h looked amused. “You will remember when the time is right.”

“But not yet.”

“No.” He brushed a hand against one of the tall mirrors, and its surface shone and rippled. “Not yet.”

She blinked, and she stood in the courtyard of Kaer Morhen, a wooden sword in her hand. Coën faced her, similarly armed, a look of patience in his bloodshot yellow-green eyes. She smiled up at him and brought her sword to the guard position. One more round.

* * *

It took no time at all to finish their business in the Hinterlands. The rifts were but a half a day’s work, and the solitary grave of the wife of the Redcliffe widower was easy to find. Ciri laid a spray of flowers before the marker and made a promise to herself that she’d return to the widower to tell him his wife was at peace. She’d found an odd feather in a long-abandoned camp nearby, long and grayish-white with a prickly, barbed shaft. Blackwall’s eyes had lit up when he’d seen it, and he thanked her gruffly when she gave it to him. A griffon feather, he called it. It hardly looked like the plumage of the griffons she was familiar with, but he seemed pleased with the gift.

They’d originally intended to head to the Storm Coast to meet the Iron Bull after they were done in the Hinterlands. Taking a month to go there and back after learning about the time magic and the Venatori seemed impractical at best, however. A messenger had been dispatched instead, and their group rode back to Haven with all haste.

Cassandra swept Ciri along in her wake the moment they dismounted at the Haven stables, barking at Cullen to follow them as they passed. He motioned for Owain to take over and fell into step with them, greeting them both courteously. Leliana joined them as they neared the chantry.

Chancellor Roderick awaited them inside, along with Mother Giselle. He sighed when he caught sight of Ciri.

“It was good of Cassandra to send word ahead about the Witchwood mages,” he said. “We sent a raven to the Grand Cathedral to keep them apprised, and they’re not pleased.”

“I thought you said they wouldn’t interfere,” Ciri said.

Mother Giselle raised a placating hand. “And perhaps they would have kept to that course had you chosen to work with the mages of Redcliffe alone. But the mages of the Witchwood are another matter. ‘Magic is meant to serve man, never to rule over him.’ These are the mages who turned their gifts to violence.”

“To protect themselves from Templars!” Ciri protested.

“So you say,” Cullen said dubiously. “But the Chantry wants assurance that the Inquisition has not strayed too far from its teachings, and that these mages won’t be a danger.”

“We should discuss this in the War Room,” Cassandra interjected. “Leliana, fetch Josephine.”

Leliana nodded and left on silent feet.

“First Enchanter Vivienne arrived three days ago,” Chancellor Roderick said. “She may have insight into the matter at hand.”

Vivienne wouldn’t be Ciri’s first choice for adding another mage’s voice to the mix, but even one more would be an improvement. “I’d welcome her thoughts,” she said.

“I’ll speak with her,” Cullen said.

Ciri followed Cassandra and the two clerics to the back of the chantry and into the War Room. The map carried a handful of new markers: a raven along the Storm Coast and in the Ferelden mountains, a key in Val Royeaux and Markham. The door opened behind her and she turned to see Cullen holding it open for Vivienne. Ciri had been right to think her beautiful when she saw her at the salon. Unmasked, she was utterly gorgeous. She had the barest hint of black stubble on her head and wore a simpler outfit than she'd had on when she saw her last, but her commanding presence made it seem as if she were dressed in Duchess Anna Henrietta’s finest gown and tiara.

“A pleasure to see you again, Lady Hand,” Vivienne said warmly. “I understand my expertise is needed on a matter of some concern?”

“Yes, welcome, First Enchanter,” Chancellor Roderick said. “Lady Ciri reached out to some controversial people, and to say it’s upset the Chantry is something of an understatement.”

“The Hand recruited the mages fighting the Templars in the Hinterlands,” Cassandra said bluntly as the door opened again to allow Josephine and Leliana in.

Vivienne shook her head in dismay. “Oh, darling, you didn’t.”

“Of course I did,” Ciri retorted, crossing her arms defensively. “They were nowhere to be seen when we returned to the Hinterlands. Once the Templars were gone, they stopped fighting. The mages weren’t the problem. They were invited to Ferelden, remember? They were promised safety. I can hardly blame them for defending themselves.”

“But the Crossroads –” Cassandra started to argue, picking up where they’d left off days before.

“Letia didn’t deny that some of the mages had a disregard for bystanders,” Ciri allowed. “She and the dozen or so remaining were the cautious ones.”

“Letia?” Vivienne asked. “Senior Enchanter Letia of the Ghislain Circle?”

“She’s their unofficial leader, as far as I was able to tell,” Ciri said.

“Letia is a colleague of mine, and an old friend,” Vivienne said. “We disagree about almost everything, but I respect her greatly. What on earth was she doing fighting Templars in the Hinterlands? I thought she was with the rebellion in Redcliffe.”

“Apparently the rebellion leadership voted to expel any mages whose magic was too frightening to the general public,” Ciri said. “They needed a pretty face to put on their magic if they wanted to convince people they deserved freedom.”

Vivienne looked scornful. “I see things are proceeding about as well as I expected. It’s not enough for them to turn on their Circles. They have to turn on their own people.”

“Do you believe Grand Enchanter Fiona to be behind this move?” Cassandra asked Vivienne.

“Not at all,” she said with a shake of her head. “Fiona is an idealist. She’d never sacrifice her people for the sake of appearance. I suspect she was overruled by frightened enchanters who came along and found the process of rebelling too slow and uncomfortable for their tastes.”

“If you can vouch for Senior Enchanter Letia, First Enchanter Vivienne, that may go a ways toward smoothing the Chantry’s ruffled feathers,” Josephine said. “As it is, they replied to our news with a demand.”

“A sensible one,” Cullen said. “Un-Harrowed mages are a danger to themselves and others.”

Ciri froze. A sour feeling rose in her stomach. _They couldn’t possibly mean…_ “You’re not saying...”

“They demand that all apostates and un-Harrowed apprentices be put through the Harrowing if they wish to stay with the Inquisition,” Chancellor Roderick said.

_Imshael. The pride demon. The terror demons._

_Gaunter O’Dimm._

“I _refuse_.”

“They specifically mentioned that you did not need Harrowing,” Leliana assured her. “You are the Hand of the Maker. The Chantry has deemed your magic safe, and not in need of human oversight. The Maker Himself watches you.”

That sounded ridiculous and made no sense, but she wasn’t about to argue against it. Still, the demand for Harrowing made her stomach churn.

“You want to pit Triss against a demon in its own territory? Olgierd? Solas?” she demanded. “I thought you said an exception could be made for them.”

“I also said that any more and the Chantry would take notice,” Chancellor Roderick reminded her. “Now they have, and that protection is being withdrawn.”

“Beyond the fact that this is a betrayal of those who have helped us since the beginning, it sets an uneasy precedent if we allow the Chantry to dictate how we proceed,” Josephine said. Her knuckles were white around the edges of her clipboard. “Should we anger them further, what else will they demand we do?”

“A betrayal?” Cullen echoed. “That’s taking it a little far, Ambassador.”

“Not far enough!” Josephine said hotly. “Messere Olgierd and Solas have been with the Inquisition since the very first day. They have eaten, slept, and bled side by side with Cassandra and Lady Ciri. Triss Merigold is a newcomer, but an old and dear friend of the Hand. And the Chantry would have us repay their staunch service by demanding they undergo a Harrowing?”

Cullen sighed. “The Harrowing isn’t a punishment. It’s meant to teach a mage how to stand against the Fade’s temptations. A mage learns to be on guard in the Harrowing, and that there are consequences to magic. There’s a reason it marks the passage from apprenticeship to full mage status.”

“And if they fail?” Ciri asked, swallowing her anger.

“They die,” Leliana said, her voice even. She watched Cullen intently from beneath her cowl. “Isn’t that right, Commander?”

“Abominations are too dangerous to allow the risk of one escaping,” Cullen replied. “A Templar must be swift to act.”

“There are ways to safely undo a possession,” Leliana countered. “The Kinloch Circle mages performed such a ritual on Arl Eamon’s son during the Blight.”

“Templars are taught to act, not to stop and consider all possibilities before choosing the wisest course of action,” Vivienne said. “They’re a singular tool for a specific job. Effective, but limited.”

Cullen looked displeased by Vivienne’s rather incisive assessment, but he didn’t contradict her.

“And if they refuse?” Ciri asked. “If Triss and the others refuse to be Harrowed, what will you do?”

She couldn’t imagine Triss agreeing to it. Her friend would never allow another Church of the Eternal Fire to have such power over her. And Olgierd had already expressed his distaste for the Harrowing. When she thought of Solas it seemed beneath him, like a trifling matter that wasn’t worth his time or consideration.

“There is traditionally only one remedy for a mage who refuses the Harrowing,” Cullen said reluctantly. “An apprentice who doesn’t believe they’ll succeed is put through the Rite of Tranquility.”

“ _No._ ” Her voice cracked through the room like a whip. “You will _not_.”

She’d met one of the Tranquil. The thought of her friends becoming like Clemence was abhorrent. That Cullen would even suggest such a thing sickened her.

Leliana threw a sharp look at Cullen. “Even if the Chantry wanted us to, it would be impossible,” she said. “We have no means of conducting the Rite.”

Josephine’s clipboard made a distressed creak beneath her white-knuckled grip. “And if we had the means, we would not,” she added. “This is the Inquisition, not the Templar Order. Such cruelty is beneath us.”

Ciri wondered if Josephine pictured the same vile image she did. Olgierd, sunburst brand stark on his forehead, blue-green eyes blank and dull instead of laughing or sad or intent. No more wry observations. No more gentle encouragement. No more music.

“Touch them,” she said, voice shaking with rage, “and I will leave you to deal with the Breach yourselves. You’ll never see me again.”

Cullen took a half step back before he caught himself. Chancellor Roderick exchanged a swift look with Mother Giselle, who spoke up soothingly.

“Your protectiveness is admirable, Your Worship. You are fierce in your devotion to your companions, much like Andraste herself. Be at ease. The Rite of Tranquility would be out of place in such a situation, I believe. We might instead simply ask them to leave the Inquisition.”

Force them out? Leave her here, bereft of the two people she knew from the Continent, and of her new tutor in magic? The thought sent a pang of loneliness shooting through her.

“They wouldn’t face the Harrowing alone,” Vivienne said, eyeing the advisors coolly. “It is the right of an apprentice’s First Enchanter to be present as their mentor and advocate. As the only First Enchanter in Haven, any new mage to be Harrowed will become a member of the Montsimmard Circle, with all afforded rights and protections.”

“That’s –”

Leliana interrupted Cullen. “That is acceptable, so long as you agree that they may wish to stay independent.”

“Then they will have my protection for the duration of the Harrowing,” Vivienne said.

Cullen shot Leliana a mild glare. “As I was saying, that’s fine with me.”

“Wait,” Ciri interrupted. “You keep speaking as if we’ve already agreed to go forward with this.” She appreciated having Vivienne’s formidable personality on her side, but nothing about this was a done deal.

Josephine straightened her shoulders and nodded to Ciri reassuringly. “Precisely. We cannot allow the Chantry to dictate how we proceed. The Inquisition is meant to operate with minimal interference and oversight. If the Chantry contradicts every action Lady Ciri takes that they dislike, they’ll cripple us before we’ve begun.”

“They need us as much or more than we need them,” Leliana agreed. “Perhaps a reminder is in order.”

“No. No assassinations, Leliana,” Josephine said sharply. “We will sort this out with reason and diplomacy. Grand Cleric Oudine is not a difficult woman. Perhaps if we gave her a token of what the Chantry demands, she will be satisfied.”

“There is still the matter of the Templars,” Chancellor Roderick suggested. “I know you have reservations, Lady Ciri, but recruiting them instead of the rebel mages in Redcliffe might appease the Chantry enough to get them to forget about this Harrowing business.”

“It’s no longer a matter of reservations,” Ciri said. “The mages in Redcliffe are in terrible danger.”

Swiftly, and without embellishments, she laid out the situation as they’d found it. The strange time-bending rifts, and the Tevinter magister behind them. The ousting of the Arl of Redcliffe, and the murder of dozens of Tranquil mages. The conscription of hundreds of rebel mages into servitude to Tevinter. The mysterious Venatori cult.

Ciri looked to Cassandra, who nodded in agreement. “We can’t allow this to stand.”

Roderick sighed. “Perhaps a delegation could be sent to the Redoubt, and you could investigate Redcliffe further. Either way, it’s clear that the mages need to be the priority.”

“What madness is this?” Cullen demanded. “I thought the rebel mages wanted freedom. Now they’ve sold themselves to a magister who’s ripping time apart? What was the Grand Enchanter thinking?”

“I doubt it was entirely voluntary,” Ciri said. “I suspect Magister Alexius used his time magic to confuse Fiona, to make it seem like she had no other choice.”

“Death would be preferable to slavery to Tevinter,” Cullen said darkly.

“And if she were the only one, she might agree,” Josephine said. “The Grand Enchanter cannot decide that death is the better option for all of her people. Where there is life, there is hope, Commander. And we are that hope.”

Leliana lightly tapped the edge of the table. “I suspect that simply reaching out to the Templars will not be enough to appease the Chantry. Not if we bring the rebel mages into the fold first.”

“That brings us back to the Harrowing,” Cassandra said. “I admit that I don’t see why Olgierd and Solas, and Triss Merigold, cannot simply agree to submit to it. But Josephine’s point is sound. We cannot allow the Chantry to determine how the Inquisition proceeds.”

“Agreed,” Cullen said, “though I would feel better if von Everec was Harrowed. His abilities make me uneasy, despite what he’s said about them.”

“Messere Olgierd is a perfect gentleman,” Josephine protested. “He’s kind and intelligent, very well-spoken.”

“He also appears and disappears in a cloud of black and red smoke, and he's covered head to toe in scars of injuries that should have killed him,” Cassandra told her. “He had a close encounter with a demon years ago that left a permanent mark on his magic.”

“It hasn’t stopped him from being a good person!” Josephine snapped. She took a deep breath, cheeks flushed an angry red. “I apologize. It’s simply – these are not just apostates, Commander. These are our friends and allies.”

“No one is denying that,” Chancellor Roderick said. “We’re all looking for a solution, Ambassador. With luck, it will be one that will keep the Chantry out of our hair going forward until a new Divine is called.”

Ciri looked around the room. “Well,” she said. “Let’s figure this out, shall we?” _Let there be a solution that doesn’t leave me feeling as though I’ve betrayed my friends._

* * *

A runner came for Olgierd as he ate in the tavern, Josephine's borrowed book on the lands of Thedas in front of him. He shoved his plate over to Sera, who'd been eyeing it hungrily, already done with her meal.

“Enjoy,” he said. “Don’t get into too much trouble.”

“Pfft.”

‘Come to the War Room,’ the messenger had said, and nothing more. He left the tavern, the book tucked under his arm, and he ducked his head against the frigid wind as he made his way toward the chantry. Solas fell into step beside him, and he raised an eyebrow at the elf.

“They called for you as well?”

“They did, though they offered no explanation.”

A flash of dark red hair up ahead caught his eye. Triss spotted them and held the chantry door open for them, shivering as she did. “Were you –”

"It seems they have a desire for our company," Olgierd said.

At the far end of the chantry, he spied the quiet elven woman, Minaeve, who did her research in Josephine’s study. She lingered outside the door of the War Room, wringing her hands together nervously.

Olgierd inclined his head in her direction. “Appears we’re not the only ones who were summoned.”

“Yes,” Triss said slowly, eyes narrowed in thought. “But not Evelyn or the other mages.”

They made their way to the end of the Chantry, and Triss greeted Minaeve warmly. Olgierd nodded to her – she was a standoffish young thing who preferred research to other people, and she seemed to find him intimidating when he tried to speak with her. Solas looked at her but didn’t otherwise acknowledge her presence.

“Hello,” Minaeve said quietly. “Do you know what this is about? It’s very sudden.”

“No, but I have a suspicion,” Triss replied.

The door to the War Room swung open, and Josephine stood in the entrance. Her eyes went straight to Olgierd’s.

“Ciri and I tried,” she murmured. “This is the best we could do. I’m sorry, Messere Olgierd.”

Olgierd entered with the others to find a packed room. Ciri and Cassandra were there, as were the Inquisition's advisors, the revered mother from the Crossroads, and a strikingly beautiful woman who looked almost Zerrikanian to his eyes. She, Leliana, and the two clerics were the only ones who seemed at all satisfied. Ciri, in particular, looked incredibly angry, lips a hard line and hands clenched at her sides.

Leliana stepped forward. “Due to certain events that took place recently, the Chantry has made demands. We will most certainly not be fulfilling all of them, but a token gesture must be made to show that we are still good and faithful Andrastians. To that end, it’s been decided that one of our un-Harrowed mages must go through the Harrowing, or leave the Inquisition, as a way to thin out the apostates in our ranks.”

Minaeve, already pale, went chalk-white. Triss froze at his side, and he could feel her trembling. Likely equal parts rage and fear. And for a brief moment, an expression of pure _scorn_ crossed Solas’ face.

“I told them if they touched you I’d leave,” Ciri said fiercely. “Say the word, Triss, and we’ll go. I know you want to stay, Olgierd, but they’re asking too much –”

He held up a hand, and she fell silent, eyes still ablaze with protective fury. A strange calm fell over him, and he gazed about the room. Leliana met his eyes impassively. Rutherford and Cassandra looked back with caution and suspicion. Josephine’s hazel eyes were full of sympathy and frustration. The Zerrikanian woman seemed calm and supportive. The revered mother looked hopeful, and Chancellor Roderick resigned.

Little Minaeve couldn’t do it. She wasn’t brave enough, wasn’t magical enough. A lack of confidence would get her killed or possessed. And Triss would die before she handed herself over to the Templars. She’d leave instead, and then Ciri would be down a dear friend.

Solas could do it easily. He knew the Fade like non-mages knew the backs of their hands. But he wouldn’t, not with that look of scorn. His stories of friendly Fade spirits told a tale of a man who prized the company of spirits above the company of his flesh and blood counterparts. The last thing he would want to do would be to fight a demon when he didn’t have to.

And Olgierd? Olgierd knew demons. He’d summoned many, bound some. He’d walked away from that, though, left that part of his life behind. Facing Thedas’ demons in combat was as far as he wished to go these days. But he didn’t want to return to the Continent, or worse, abandon Ciri. He’d found joy in this strange cause, and in helping Geralt’s daughter. He had friends here, a purpose. He had neither of those in his own world.

Rutherford and Cassandra wouldn’t be satisfied if Minaeve or Triss or Solas agreed. He was the one they mistrusted, the one they feared in the back of their minds. Nothing, save this Harrowing, would put them at ease.

So as Minaeve drew a shaky breath and began to raise her hand, he cut across her, speaking out in the still room.

“I’ll do it.”


	20. Reunions and Rituals

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Witchwood mages and Clemence arrive. Olgierd undergoes the Harrowing. Ciri frets.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> beta-read by brightspot149. Thank you!
> 
> contains minor Cullen/Evelyn in the second half of the chapter, when Ciri is waiting with Josephine in the Chantry.

Olgierd loitered near the tavern, eyes on his borrowed book. He’d read the same paragraph three times now, unable to focus on the words on the page, but the appearance of reading kept people away as the hour of his Harrowing drew nearer. Everyone and their mother had an opinion on his choice. He’d spoken to the people who mattered. Now all he wanted was a bit of space before the time came.

Ciri had apologized profusely in private for not being able to overrule them, even with Josephine on her side. He understood and told her no apology was necessary. There were apparently limits to her influence, even with this lot. And clever Josephine with her heart of gold – she looked so upset when Olgierd volunteered. She'd thrown herself back into her work, and had spent the past few days being uncharacteristically snappish with Cassandra and Rutherford.

The Zerrikanian woman turned out to be First Enchanter Vivienne, the woman Ciri had been so wary of after the Orlesian salon. Olgierd could see why; she was every inch a sorceress of the Continent in bearing, power, and attitude. Currently, however, she was his greatest ally. Under her direction, the chantry dungeon was scoured clean, and she personally inspected and interviewed the Inquisition’s Templars for suitability to determine who would stand watch while his mind wandered the Fade.

“It cannot be Knight-Lieutenant Owain or his associates,” Vivienne had explained the day before as they looked over the training field. “The three of them are most decidedly _former_ Templars. Not to mention friends of yours. And the Commander is unacceptable. He distrusts you and might swing his blade prematurely – not consciously, but fear is a powerful thing. No, we need someone steady, capable of independent thought but also of following orders. A difficult task for a Templar."

Then there was the matter of the lyrium. Evelyn warned him that the dose at the Harrowing would hit like a sledgehammer and leave him woozy for hours after. Olgierd suspected it would be worse for him. He’d not taken lyrium before. The strongest thing he’d ever had was the potent bottle of spirits Stjepan kept behind the bar at the Alchemy in Oxenfurt. From the sound of it, the Harrowing would require a great deal of lyrium – no mean feat to find when the Templars here were already stretched thin.

He flipped the page to an illustration of the Minanter River, a long, sinuous line that coiled and curved its way along the top of the Free Marches and into Nevarra, finally trailing off in Tevinter. Josephine had been curious about his interest in Thedosian geography, and she had gladly pointed out the towns his parents were purported to come from thanks to her hard work. Hunter Fell, she’d said, and Denerim.

He told her he was interested in seeing the scope of things, in acquainting himself with the lands the Inquisition might be called upon to help. Truth, but not the whole of it. A small, impractical part of him wished to know the names of the mountains and the rivers, of the towns and the forests. The songs of the Continent were too foreign to this land. He wanted to keep a part of his old life with him, even if the names needed to be changed.

A distant voice rose beyond the gate, and he looked up from the book. Whoever it was, they sounded beyond enraged. He tucked the book beneath his arm and began walking in that direction.

The indistinct shouting grew clearer the closer he drew. He pushed open the gate to find Rona yelling at Rutherford, the Tranquil mage from Redcliffe standing placidly by her side. Cassandra, Owain, and Raúl watched by the training dummies, ready to jump between them. Evelyn peeked out of the healing tent, eyes wide. Farther up the path, he spotted a group of people walking with long staves slung across their backs – the mages from the Witchwood.

“–Up your ass sideways! Who looks at letters and thinks it’s worth fucking a boy’s life over for? Look at him, Commander! The Order _stole_ Clemence!”

“I have not been stolen,” Clemence said in an even voice. “Please stop shouting at the Templar, ser. I would prefer it if you did not anger him.”

Rona whirled around, and Olgierd glimpsed tears in her eyes as he walked closer. “Clemence – Clemence, don’t you recognize me? It’s Rona – your little sister.”

Clemence looked at her with impassive eyes. “I remember having a sister. Rona. You were much smaller before.”

She let out a choked, wet laugh, and reached for him, jerking her hand back at the last moment. “You stopped writing,” she whispered. “I joined the Templars to find you.”

“I prefer not to interact with Templars,” Clemence said blandly. “They are often rude and unkind.”

“No, no, I left the Order! Fuck them!” Rona cried. She reached out again with a muttered, “Fuck it,” and grabbed her brother in a tight hug that he didn’t return, arms slack at his sides. She pulled back and cradled his face in her hands, staring into his eyes. “Who did this to you?”

“The Order forbids us to speak of the Rite of Tranquility.”

“Damn the Order! Who hurt you?”

“I am unharmed, Rona.”

“That’s a fucking lie, but it’s not your fault.” She turned back to Rutherford, tears streaming down her face, and snarled, “If I ever find out who did this to my brother, they’re dead.”

“Any Templar who wielded the brand was only following orders as laid out by Chantry law,” Rutherford replied, but it was clear his heart wasn’t in the argument. He seemed pained as he looked at the siblings, so alike in appearance, so drastically different in temperament.

If Clemence hadn’t been made Tranquil, would he be as sarcastic and foul-mouthed as his sister? What had he been like before his mind had been sundered?

“Is that what you tell yourself so you can sleep at night?” Rona shot back. “Chantry law is wrong. Were you just sleepwalking through Kirkwall, or did Meredith keep you up at night with –”

Rutherford paled, two red spots of anger high on his cheeks. He opened his mouth to reply, and an Orlesian voice cut them both off.

“My, what a fascinating welcome. Monsieur Olgierd, it’s a pleasure to see you again.”

Rutherfod and Rona broke off from their argument, looking first to Letia at the head of her small delegation, and then to Olgierd as soon as they heard his name. Rutherfod looked away as he caught sight of Olgierd, something akin to shame crossing his face. A part of him was viciously pleased to see it. He may have volunteered, but he’d been backed into it – and he knew Rutherford and Cassandra had argued for it.

Olgierd stepped forward. "Well met. You've caught us at an inconvenient time, but you're welcome nonetheless. I'm sure a scout can give you a tour of Haven if you've ten minutes to spare, and the quartermaster can set you up with tents.”

Rutherford cleared his throat. “I can give you that tour. You’re Senior Enchanter Letia, correct? First Enchanter Vivienne spoke highly of you. And these must be your fellow mages from the Witchwood.”

“Vivienne is here?” Letia smiled. “I haven’t had a proper debate in ages.”

“Follow me, please,” Rutherford said, and he led the mages off, pointing to the healing tent and the training field as they went.

Rona eyed Olgierd for a moment. “Who sent my brother here? Who found him?”

“Triss found him,” Olgierd told her. “Ciri told him to come.”

Rona nodded. “I’ll have to thank them both.”

She had no idea what a narrow escape Clemence had. If she’d seen the shed with the skulls, if she’d read the letter, she might march to Redcliffe to tear the Venatori from the castle with her bare hands.

“They’ll be glad to know you’ve reunited,” he said.

Rona gripped her brother’s sleeve, as if afraid he might disappear on her. “It’s not what I wanted. But it’s what I have. No one’s taking him away from me again.”

“Olgierd," Vivienne called out from behind him, and he turned to see her standing by the gate with an Inquisition soldier, hands folded in front of her. “It’s time.”

He nodded. “Be right there.”

“Hey,” Rona said. “Good luck.” Beneath her lingering anger and the sheen of tears, he saw genuine concern.

“My thanks.”

Owain called his name from where he stood by the training dummies. Olgierd looked over, and he and Raúl both thumped their right fists over their hearts. Cassandra hesitated but nodded shortly.

“Are you prepared?” Vivienne asked once he joined her. “There’s no shame in needing a moment to collect yourself.”

Olgierd shook his head, shoving down his unease. “I doubt I’ll be any more prepared should we dither. Best we get to it.”

“I suspected you were a man of action,” she said approvingly. “Good. Hold on to that. Find what motivates you and let it propel you through to the other side.”

“She’s not technically supposed to give you advice, but it’s vague enough that I don’t see a problem,” the soldier said. He had a strong accent that reminded Olgierd of the dwarves of the Continent, and unusual tattoos – thick, slightly curved black lines that ran down his chin and the side of his nose.

“Meet Knight-Captain Rylen,” Vivienne said as they began to walk back to the chantry. She gestured to the Templar with a graceful flip of her hand. “He’ll be providing the necessary Templar presence for your Harrowing.”

“Bit of a shit show, this, but when the Chantry barks, we jump to obey,” Knight-Captain Rylen opined. “I hear it’s your first time using lyrium?”

Olgierd patted the hilt of his saber. “I’ve no need for it when I have my blade at hand.”

“Makes sense. Then I won’t assume the worst has happened if you take longer than usual.”

“I told you I’d find an intelligent one,” Vivienne said. “Not to worry, darling. I have everything in hand.”

Rylen laughed under his breath and shot Olgierd a rueful look. “Forgive me if I don’t get too friendly before it’s over.”

“Easily done,” Olgierd said.

He understood the Templar’s reluctance. The man would be holding a blade over him in a few minutes, waiting to see if he came back possessed. He didn’t blame Rylen for wanting to spare himself the heartache of having to kill someone he liked if this went wrong.

Ciri almost ran him over as he entered the chantry, so caught up in her anxious pacing she hardly noticed the door open.

“Olgierd!” She stopped abruptly, eyes wide and anxious. He could see her struggling to find the right words, her lips parting slightly and then pressing together, her marked hand clenched at her side.

He tipped her chin up with a finger, looking down into her vivid green eyes. “Stop blaming yourself for this. I made my choice, and that’s on me, and me alone.”

“Ugh, why couldn’t you have been awful like I expected?” She dashed the back of her hand across her eyes and glared at him. “Come back alive, do you hear me?”

“Who am I to deny a friend a request?” He handed her Josephine’s book, then reached for his belt and untied the knots holding his scabbard in place, handing his saber over as well. “For safekeeping. I’ll be back for these.”

He staggered as she threw herself into his arms, the hilt of his sword and the spine of the book digging into his back. His mind went blank for a moment, then he remembered what his arms were supposed to do and he folded them around her carefully.

“I’ll be right here, holding onto them. I’ll be the first thing you see when you come back,” she said fiercely.

Vivienne spoke up, projecting calm and reassurance. “Lady Ciri, I have personally overseen dozens of Harrowings as First Enchanter. No apprentice has ever failed under my watch. I will not let this be the first.”

Ciri drew back and took a deep breath. “Thank you, Enchanter Vivienne. I appreciate all you’ve done for us.”

“Not to rush this, but time is wasting,” Rylen said quietly.

Olgierd reached out and tapped the hilt of his saber. “I’ll be back, Ciri. Never you fear.”

He had to remind himself not to look back at Ciri as he followed Rylen farther into the chantry. The clerics were conspicuous in the pains they took not to stare, but they seemed unaware that their whispers carried in a building like this. Josephine stuck her head around the door of her office, worry written across her lovely face.

“I’ll be fine,” he assured her. “Perhaps you might see fit to keep Ciri company while she waits?”

“It would be better than staring at my paperwork and fretting,” Josephine said. She came closer and pressed something soft into his hand. “For luck.”

He looked down as she walked away. Tucked into his rough hand was a square of finely woven white silk edged in deep blue. In the corner, embroidered in gold thread, three initials shone up at him: _JCM_. His heart gave a complicated twist he wasn’t prepared to think too closely on, and he gently folded it into a smaller square to tuck up his sleeve.

“Chevaliers of Orlais rarely venture into battle without a token or a favor from a sweetheart tied beneath their armor,” Vivienne told him.

“I’m no chevalier, Enchanter.”

“Yet the ambassador has armed you for battle nonetheless.”

The air grew cold as they descended the steps to the dungeon. The hanging lanterns threw dark shadows along the stone hallway. Olgierd rubbed his hands together briskly as the chill began to set in. No one awaited them down here, no guards, no prisoners, no Templars. The three of them were the only witnesses to the obscene Chantry ritual he was about to embark upon.

Vivienne led him to a stone bowl in the center of the dungeon placed carefully on two stacked crates. He leaned over to see a shining blue liquid the color of the summer sky within, filling it to almost two-thirds capacity.

“Ordinarily there’s a font inscribed with runes to facilitate the transfer,” Vivienne said. “We had to make do.”

“Where did all this come from?” he asked. He’d thought the Templars were stretched thin.

“I’m quitting after today. That freed up some of the inventory.” Rylen shook his head. “If I’m forgetting people from my own Circle, then I don’t have long before there’s no fixing it.”

_Oh, Merigold, what did you do?_

“My condolences, Knight-Captain,” Vivienne said. “A Templar’s sacrifice does not go unappreciated.” Rylen stepped back, and she turned her attention to Olgierd.

“This part will be simple enough,” she said. “You’ll place your hand in the bowl, and I will cast a sleep spell on you. The magic will draw the lyrium into your skin. You need not worry about falling. Knight-Captain Rylen will catch you.”

“And once I’m asleep?” he asked. His heart began to beat faster. He’d never been _in_ the demonic plane before. His dreams here had been pleasant, but the demons the rifts spat out were monstrous.

And Mihris’ story of Imshael bore ugly parallels to his own idiotic choices.

“Then you must trust your own mind, and nothing else,” she said. “Are you ready?”

He plunged his hand into the slick blue liquid. A strange lassitude washed over him, and before his tired eyes, the blue crawled up his wrist and sank beneath his skin.

His heart jumped. His skin prickled. His head pounded. He fell backward, unable to keep his eyes open any longer.

He opened them in the overgrown courtyard of his estate, a hairy black spider the size of a hound bearing down on him on skittering legs. He reached for his sword and swore as his hand grasped air.

* * *

Ciri had rarely felt so useless as she did watching Olgierd walk away while clutching his book in one hand and his saber in the other. All that talk about her being their "Hand of the Maker" and in the end, it was good for precisely nothing. She couldn't even protect her own friends from the Chantry's meddling when they decided to throw their weight around – and it was her bull-headed choice to ignore the Chantry’s warnings that got them into this situation in the first place.

He stopped to exchange brief words with Josephine as she looked on, and she squinted, trying to make out what the ambassador had given him. Whatever it was, it seemed to affect him. Then he was gone, down the steps to the dungeon.

Josephine came to her side and offered her a gentle smile, her eyes filled with concern. “Messere Olgierd suggested that I wait with you, but I was hoping you might keep me company as well. I keep trying to focus on my work, but –” She shrugged helplessly.

“I hadn’t realized you were so close,” Ciri said.

“I wouldn’t say we’re close,” Josephine started to deny, then sighed. “He is a friend. I admit I found his appearance intimidating when we first met, but he has been nothing but kind and thoughtful, and a true pleasure to speak with. After a time, I just saw... _him_.”

Josephine was better than Ciri, then. She couldn’t help noticing the scars, though they didn’t bother her.

“What did you give him?” she asked. “I saw you pass him something.”

A faint blush rose on Josephine’s cheeks. “Nothing. Just a small token to see him through his trial.”

 _Oh_. “You know that –”

“He still mourns. I know,” Josephine said. She gave Ciri a brave little smile and changed the subject. “May I ask – the story you told of your parents turned out to be real. The rumors of Olgierd, are any of them true? Would he mind if you told me?”

“I don’t believe he’d mind, though I’ll avoid details,” Ciri said. “He comes from a noble family. They were –” _raiders._ “– eccentrics. He truly is the last of his line.”

Josephine nodded and fell silent, and they both turned their attention to the darkened stairwell leading to the dungeon. Not a sound emerged. Nothing stirred within.

“It’s only been a few minutes,” Ciri said, half to Josephine, half as a reminder to herself.

“It will be fine.” Josephine took a steadying breath. “Everything will be fine.”

A chill breeze blew through the chantry, and Ciri turned to see who’d opened the door. Triss and Evelyn waved and walked over.

“So this is our big plan for the day?” Triss said with forced cheer. “Stand around and stare at the stairs?”

Ciri shrugged. “Do you have a better plan?”

“No.” Triss sobered a little. “I would have left if he hadn’t…. I owe him. I couldn’t have stayed, even for you.”

“You would have been welcome at my parents’ estate,” Evelyn said. “But Triss, it’s not as bad as you fear. The Templars who abused their power aren’t anywhere near Haven, and the Harrowing isn’t a punishment.”

Triss gave her a long, measured look. “I’m sure you believe that. But I’ll never let the Ch – the Chantry get their hands on me. I know better than to trust a religion that blames mages for the world’s problems.”

“That’s fair,” Evelyn admitted. “My own experiences in the Ostwick Circle were far better than most.”

“And I’m happy for you,” Triss said. “It’s never easy to learn what evils men are capable of.”

“If ever I can do anything to help you feel more at ease within the Inquisition, Serah Merigold, do let me know,” Josephine interjected. “Please don’t hesitate to tell me if one of the Templars poses a problem.”

“I’ll keep it in mind,” Triss said. “And you can call me Triss, Ambassador.”

“Oh, then please feel free to call me Josephine.”

Evelyn looked around the chantry, her eyes lingering on the small clusters of clerics pretending not to be paying attention to them, and declared, “We’ll be here a while. There’s no sense in standing. Triss, will you lend me a hand?”

“Of course.”

Evelyn led her off to one of the alcoves, and they returned dragging a long, heavy bench. All eyes turned in their direction as it scraped loudly against the stone floor. Triss gave it a final screeching shove and sat on the end.

“Come on,” she said, patting the bench. “You’re not doing yourself any favors standing around worrying.”

Ciri sat heavily beside her, resting Olgierd’s saber across her knees. Josephine took the seat next to her, folding her hands in her lap and crossing her legs at the ankles, the picture of elegance. Evelyn sat last, laying her satchel of medicine in her lap.

“Have patience,” Evelyn said calmly. “Harrowings take time.”

She didn’t want to have patience. She wanted to shake Cullen and Cassandra until their teeth rattled, shout at Chancellor Roderick and Mother Giselle until she ran out of breath, tear down the Grand Cathedral to its foundation, take Leliana up on her suggestion of assassination. She wanted to step back in time to that night in the Witchwood and tell the mages to go anywhere but the Inquisition.

She wanted to be selfish.

The door to the chantry opened again and Cullen entered, leading a gaggle of familiar mages. He froze when he spotted the four of them sitting there, averting his eyes swiftly with a look of discomfort on his face. Letia walked around him and smiled.

“Ah, our apostate friends,” she said, greeting Ciri and Triss. “And friends of our friends. I am Letia, former senior enchanter of the Ghislain Circle. These are my fellow mages.” She waved to the people behind her and introduced them. They all raised a hand or nodded as their name was called.

“Monsieur Olgierd mentioned that we came at an awkward time – I hope we aren’t causing too much of an imposition,” she continued. “Where is he?”

“In the dungeon,” Ciri said shortly. It wasn’t the Witchwood mages’ fault, but she couldn’t help her anger. Had Ciri not recruited them, none of this would have happened. “Being Harrowed.”

Melora, the angry elf who’d protested leaving Levyn behind, scoffed. “We’re never good enough for them, are we?”

“Peace, Melora,” Letia said. She scrutinized Ciri and nodded to herself. “I see. They couldn’t let it pass without consequence. I apologize for causing you trouble.”

“It’s not your fault the Chantry is full of overbearing, fearful bigots,” Triss said. “They probably think they were doing us a favor.”

“Some favor,” Melora muttered.

Letia looked at the bench, then at the shadowed steps down to the dungeon. “You’re waiting on his return? We shall join you. Osanna, Symon, find another bench, will you?”

Two of the mages nodded and split from the group. Letia sat at the far end of the bench, smoothing the skirts of her robe over her lap. “I assume Vivienne is overseeing things below?”

Ciri opened her mouth to reply, and a screech of wood across stone interrupted her. Then it cut off, and she turned to see Cullen motioning for Osanna to help Symon at one end, and he lifted the other, helping them to carry it over.

“Yes,” Ciri said, tensing as Cullen came closer. The bench dropped with a quiet clatter, and Cullen walked over.

“Lady Ciri,” he began. His hesitant expression made her anger surge.

“I have nothing to say to you until I see that my friend is safe,” she said coldly.

“I did as I thought was best,” he said in a low voice. “It’s the duty of a Templar to protect against unknown and dangerous magic. Sometimes that means we must make difficult decisions.”

Evelyn looked up at him. “I thought you left the Templars.”

In the face of her earnestness, he faltered. “I did. But some things aren’t so easily left behind.”

“My brother believes it’s a Templar’s duty to protect mages,” Evelyn told him. “Perhaps you might find that easier to live with.”

“Perhaps,” Cullen echoed.

Evelyn dug into her satchel and brought out a little stoppered bottle. She held it out to him with a small smile. He looked at it for a long moment, then took it, shoulders sagging. “Thank you,” he said softly.

Evelyn’s smile was radiant.

“There are others who might want to be here, Commander,” Josephine said. “The Trevelyan brothers and the former Markham Templars, Messeres Tethras and Solas. Possibly Cassandra.”

Cullen took the hint. “I’ll let them know.”

Ciri didn’t watch him leave. Her eyes were on the stairwell, looking for any hint of movement, any clue that it was over.

Nothing.

Triss wrapped an arm around her shoulders, and Josephine took her hand.

“Everything will be fine,” Josephine said again.

 _Right. Everything will be fine_.

* * *

Olgierd limped down the carpeted hall of his memories, one hand clutching a fireplace poker and the other alight with flame. The dog-sized spiders had been aggressive but simple-minded, and he burned them to ash on the front step with little trouble. But with each room he wandered through, his heart grew heavier.

Paintings on the wall, done by a hand he’d never see again. Books he’d read until his eyes ached. A table set for two. A bed, half-made, and a deep violet rose on the bedside table.

He’d thought himself prepared. Nothing could have readied him for this. Solas had understated things when he said the Fade reflected memories. He kept seeing movement in the corner of his eye, kept turning and desperately hoping, heart rising in his chest –

No. She was never there.

The Fade hadn’t been cruel enough to recreate his father-in-law’s corpse in the cellar, though the spectral hounds that mauled his leg were a nice, violent touch. _Oh, Iris, it was an accident, I was too forceful. I pray you forgave me by the end_. He extinguished the fire in his hand and reached for the door of the sitting room at the end of the hall.

“I wouldn’t go in there if I were you.”

Olgierd shut his eyes. _No_.

“Vlod.”

“In the flesh, brother!” the hauntingly familiar voice said cheerfully. “Now turn around and greet me properly.”

Slowly, reluctantly, Olgierd turned from the door, hope and dread warring in his chest. What manner of spirit had stolen his brother’s voice? What demon waited behind him?

Vlodimir’s roguish grin lit up the hallway. “My damned dearest brother!” he cried, throwing open his arms. “Come here!”

The spirit looked just as Vlodimir had the last day they’d ridden out together, young and sturdy and blessedly whole, saber at his side and lank thatch of brown hair falling across his brow.

“Are you a spirit or a demon?” Olgierd asked hoarsely. He gripped the poker tightly.

The spirit’s arms dropped, and he – it – frowned. “Well now, that’s a difficult question to answer.”

“Try.”

“Picture it,” the spirit said. “There I was, a humble desire demon, not a care in the world save beautifying the nights of the dreamers of Ostwick, when out of nowhere, _you_ come along. All those memories of places and people I’d never seen anywhere in the Fade – I couldn’t help coming in for a look. And someone needed to play the part of your brother in your dreams. Can I help that I liked the role?”

“A demon, then,” Olgierd concluded. It would hurt to see even this false image of Vlodimir die, but he’d do it if he had to.

“Nay, not at all,” the demon denied. “I _was_ a desire demon. All those beautiful, terrible memories made me something else, something more _._ Something... _adventurous_. Every memory you possess of old Vlodimir is packed in here.” It pointed at its stolen head. “Every dream you’ve had of your brother since coming here, that’s been me.” It gave Olgierd an expectant look. “You have enjoyed your dreams, haven’t you?”

Olgierd swallowed against the sudden lump in his throat. “More than you can possibly know.”

The demon, the spirit, beamed. “Ah, that’s good. Dour doesn’t suit you. I’ve seen your memories. I know there’s a man in there who laughs and dances and revels with the best of them.”

From behind the sitting room door, a voice roared in anger. It struck him as familiar, but he wasn’t sure quite how.

“Ignore it,” the spirit said.

Olgierd couldn’t help looking past the spirit down the darkened hallway. It would be too much to hope to see her again, and even as he had the thought he hated himself for it. This cold, grim manor was no place for Iris, not even for a pale imitation of her.

"She's not coming," the spirit said as if reading his mind. "A Harrowing is too hard for a spirit of creativity. And she’s just a spirit, Olgierd. She’s not Iris. You must let her go.”

He looked away, unwilling to face the sympathy in the spirit’s borrowed eyes. His hand drifted unbidden to his sleeve, where a square of silk lay tucked beneath in the physical world.

“Did she know?” he asked. His quiet question was almost drowned out by the roar of the being behind the door. “Did she know I loved her?”

“You know the answer to that, brother.”

Olgierd nodded tightly and turned back to the sitting room door. “I take it this is my exit.”

“Yes and no,” the spirit said. “There’s a rage demon behind that door. A mage summoned him here to fight you, offered him the same chance any demon gets at a Harrowing. But there’s also an element of chicanery. A helpful spirit, meant to lure and trick a prospective mage.”

Olgierd raised an eyebrow at the spirit, who grinned. “Not very tricky of you, telling me this.”

“I may have taken another’s place,” the spirit confessed. “So here’s my part in it: care to let me possess you? We’d make a brilliant team, you and I, for the two seconds before yon Templar kills us.”

“Not a chance,” Olgierd told him, startled into laughter.

“Sod it. Ah well. Go, be brave, face your demon. Do the von Everec name proud.” The spirit held out his saber. “And for fuck’s sake, brother, learn to conjure a sword in your dreams. That poker is just pathetic.”

Olgierd laughed again and took the saber. He hesitated, then gripped the spirit by the shoulder. “My apologies,” he said to Vlodimir. “I was a fool. Forgive me?”

The spirit clasped the hand gripping his shoulder. “He would have forgiven you anything,” he said sincerely.

Olgierd nodded and whirled around, pushing open the door and striding through.

Another roar shook the room, and a figure lurched from the shadows on unsteady feet, dripping ichor and embers. Olgierd stared, then raised his borrowed saber as a warped vision of himself came into view. He smiled grimly.

_How many men have the privilege of killing their own worst enemy?_

The demon lunged for him with clawed hands. He parried the blow, flinching as sparks of flame flew off the sword and into his face. The demon struck again as Olgierd staggered back. The claws scored deep into his arm, five points of searing hot pain.

He regained his footing and lashed out, carving into the demon’s side. It roared in agony with his voice, reaching for him once more. _Not this time_. He pressed the advantage, saber flicking out again and again. The demon bled ichor and fire in equal measure, turning the carpet black and green beneath their feet.

It collapsed to its knees, spent and bleeding. Olgierd raised the saber a final time and let the blade fly, sending the demon’s unnervingly familiar head toppling to the ruined carpet.

 _Was this what Iris saw in me in the end?_ He knew it was merely a demon, but all of this – the battle, the manor, Vlodimir’s mimic – felt like the Fade was holding up a mirror to his own darkness.

_Let it die. Let me be a better man._

The strange lassitude washed over him again. The spirit’s saber dropped from his hand as his eyes slipped closed and he was tugged back to the waking world.

* * *

Two hands, one large and callused, the other slender and smooth, gripped his own and hauled him from the floor. He swayed on his feet, head a muddled, pounding mess. Knight-Captain Rylen peered into his eyes and nodded briskly.

“Aye, you’re fine. Well done.”

“Congratulations, Olgierd,” Vivienne said warmly. “Allow me to be the first to welcome you to our ranks.”

“Forgive me for not showing the proper enthusiasm,” he muttered. “I’m in sore need of honest sleep.”

“A sentiment most new mages express after a Harrowing,” Vivienne said. “Come, let’s get you upstairs. I believe we’re quite done here. Knight-Captain?”

“No arguments here.”

Olgierd took a wobbly step and began to teeter dangerously. Rylen caught him and slung one of Olgierd’s arms over his shoulders.

“Easy there, ser,” Rylen said. “Follow the First Enchanter. Nice and slow.”

With Rylen’s assistance, he followed Vivienne, leaving the dungeon and stumbling up the stairs. Cries of relief greeted him as he crested the final step.

“ _Olgierd_!”

Ciri tucked herself under his other arm, taking his weight easily. “Was it very difficult?” she asked anxiously. “Evelyn said it wasn’t that bad, but we couldn’t be sure.”

He gave her a tired smile. “Didn’t I tell you that you needn’t fuss?”

“Didn’t I say I’d fuss if I like?”

He looked up, exhaustion making the room swim. It seemed crowded, far more so than he’d expect for a typical chantry service. And not the usual chantrygoers, either. Familiar faces, all, from Triss to the Trevelyans to the Witchwood mages. Even Solas, Varric, and Cassandra were there.

“They came for you,” a soft voice said. He looked down to see a blurry Josephine standing at his elbow. “Oh, Messere Olgierd, you look exhausted.”

He blinked at her. Had there been two of Josephine before? “Don’t worry, dove,” he assured both of her. “I’m very hard to kill.”

Ciri's voice was muffled as if she were speaking underwater. "Put him on my bed. Let him sleep, the poor man. He deserves it."

He closed his eyes, and the world disappeared.

  
  
  



	21. Plans and Confrontations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ciri and the advisors struggle to find a safe way into Redcliffe. Dorian makes another appearance. Alexius welcomes Ciri's delegation into Redcliffe Castle, and all seems to be going according to plan...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beta-read by brightspot149. Thank you!

The crowd began to disperse as Ciri and Rylen made their way back from depositing Olgierd on her bed. Vivienne exclaimed over the state of Letia’s worn robes, leading her and the other Witchwood mages from the chantry in search of clean water and a hot meal. Evelyn went with them, and Maxwell disappeared back into the office he shared with Josephine. Ciri headed in her direction, seeing her standing by herself staring at Ciri’s door.

Leliana intercepted her. “Messengers came to the gates while you were waiting,” she said quietly. “Go to the War Room. I’ll gather the others.”

Ciri’s relief instantly soured to irritation. Could she not have five minutes to breathe? She gave her a short nod and turned on her heel, walking to the far end of the chantry. Owain awaited her there. He leaned by the door with a look of concern in his eyes, and as she approached he extended a hand in her direction.

“Are you all right?” he asked.

“Am _I_ all right? They didn’t do it to me.”

“That doesn’t mean it wasn’t hard on you.” She let him take her hand, and he gently held it, eyes dark and kind. “For what it’s worth, I’m sorry. If there’s anything I can do –”

“Protect the new mages,” she told him. “They’ve been through enough.”

“Gladly.”

They stood there a moment, her hand in his, his eyes on hers, a bubble of silence around them. Her stomach fluttered, and he gave her a small smile that made the corners of his eyes crinkle.

“Ciri –”

“Ser Owain,” Leliana interrupted from over Ciri’s shoulder. “Forgive me, but I need to borrow the Hand for a council meeting. Perhaps you could resume this later?”

Ciri pulled her hand away, cheeks hot. “I’m coming. I’ll speak with you later, Owain.”

He just chuckled. “Until then.”

Leliana gave a light laugh as the door to the War Room closed behind them, all the advisors assembled around the table. “I didn’t know you had eyes for Ser Owain, Lady Ciri. He is a handsome one, no?”

“Let’s just get to the meeting,” Ciri said hastily, swallowing her irritation and embarrassment. 

Laughter still danced in her eyes, but Leliana left off the teasing and put two official-looking letters with broken wax seals on the table.

“These arrived while you were waiting,” Leliana said. “One is an invitation to Redcliffe Castle from Magister Gereon Alexius. The other is an offer to meet from Lord Seeker Lucius Corin.” She stepped back, looking around the room. “Thoughts, anyone?”

“The Temp –” Surprisingly, Cullen cut himself off. He reached instead for the letter from Lord Seeker Lucius and skimmed it, frowning. “Cassandra, does this seem right to you?”

“Let me see.” She tugged the letter from his hands. “This can’t be right!” she exclaimed, looking up at Leliana in consternation. “He’ll only meet with the Hand of the Maker?”

“And not you, a fellow Seeker, or a delegation of our Templars,” Leliana confirmed. “It did strike me as suspicious.”

“And he specifies that the meeting must be held in Therinfal Redoubt,” Cullen muttered. “I hate to say it, but I doubt we can trust this.”

Chancellor Roderick glanced at the other letter. “This one requests you by name, Lady Ciri.” He handed it to Josephine, who raised her eyebrows at the contents.

“The magister certainly doesn’t skimp on the flattery, does he?”

“Indeed, he’s so flattering, I’m certain he intends to kill you,” Leliana said to Ciri.

Ciri reached for the letters, and Cassandra and Josephine promptly passed them over. _Goodness, Alexius is quite the charmer, isn’t he? And Lucius’ demands seem rather suspect._ “We were already intending to rescue the mages,” she said, setting them down on the table. “And Felix warned us about the Venatori. This is merely confirmation. So, how do we proceed?”

“I don’t see how,” Cullen said. He looked at her cautiously, but her anger had dimmed since seeing Olgierd return safely, and she nodded for him to proceed. “Redcliffe Castle is one of the most defensible fortresses in Ferelden. It has repelled hundreds of assaults. Once you’re inside, I don’t see a way to safely get you back out should things go wrong.”

“My ‘Fade step’ can carry me farther than I tend to use it in battle, Commander,” Ciri said.

“It cannot carry you away from Redcliffe if Alexius creates more of those strange rifts,” Cassandra said. “That magic interfered with yours. Remember?”

She had forgotten, and she shuddered as her mind conjured up the ghostly sensation of the heavy, cloying magic that had dragged her from between. “Then I’ll fight. Worse men than Alexius have tried and failed to kill me. I won’t let him be the one to take my life.”

Leliana studied her. “Someday,” she murmured, “you will have to share these stories, Lady Ciri.”

If she didn’t think the Chantry would call for her head, perhaps she would. Someday.

“It may be wiser to risk the meeting with Lord Seeker Lucius, and then go to Redcliffe,” Cullen said. He held up a hand to stop Ciri’s protest. “We simply don’t have enough Templars here to safely manage the mages should they join us. Recruiting more Templars ought to be a priority.”

“Saving the mages from slavery and driving a Tevinter cult from Ferelden should be our priority,” Ciri retorted. “Not finding more jailers.” She winced inwardly. This was the sort of hotheadedness that had brought the Chantry down on her only days ago.

“We’re not – Templars are not jailers,” Cullen argued.

“Before they rebelled, were mages allowed to leave the Circles?” Ciri asked, trying to keep a lid on her temper.

Cullen sighed. “No.”

“And if they were found outside of a Circle, what happened?”

“They were to be brought back or...dealt with.”

Ciri spread her hands in front of her, raising her eyebrows at him. “And this says something other than jailers to you?”

“That’s not – Magic is dangerous, Lady Ciri,” Cullen said. “Mages require guidance and oversight. An unchecked mage could do catastrophic harm. There will be hundreds of new mages in Haven if you succeed. We must keep control, or there will be abominations.”

Like that poor girl Levyn had spoken of, the one who let a demon in to kill her attackers. Would Cullen blame her for losing control, point to it as an example of why Templars were necessary?

“I can understand that you believe that,” she said evenly. “But I think you look for trouble because you can’t imagine a world where mages are free.”

“We’ve seen what mage rule looks like,” Cassandra said. “Tevinter. Is that really so much better in your mind?”

“You’re twisting my words, and you know it,” Ciri said, stung. “There’s a difference between living in peace and a slave-owning magocracy.”

Josephine slashed her hand through the air. “Enough. This is going nowhere. How are we going to get Ciri into the castle and back out safely?”

“And you will not consider going to Therinfal?” Cullen asked, sounding quite resigned.

“Not a chance, Commander.”

“Then we proceed with caution, Maker help us.” He rubbed the back of his neck and looked down at the map. “Getting you in will be the easy part. But you’ll be surrounded. We’ll have no way to protect you should things go sideways.”

“And we can’t afford to lose you,” Chancellor Roderick added. “That magic on your hand is our only hope of sealing the Breach for good.”

“I’m not so easily lost,” Ciri said.

Cullen glowered down at the table with weary eyes, as if the answers he sought might be found in the map’s lines. “We don’t have the manpower to take the castle,” he said in frustration. “We need another approach.”

“Even if we did, it would be the height of foolishness,” Josephine pointed out. “An Orlesian army marching into Ferelden would provoke a war. Call us a neutral power if you must, but so long as the Chantry backs us, our principal ties are to Orlais.”

Cassandra grimaced. “The magister –”

“Has outplayed us,” Cullen interrupted.

“Perhaps not,” Leliana said, her keen eyes lighting up with a sudden thought. “When I traveled with Queen Elissa and King Alistair during the Blight, we had to make use of a secret entrance into Redcliffe Castle. An escape route for the family. It’s too narrow for our troops, but we could send agents through.”

The hopeless look on Cullen’s face faded some, but he still objected. “It’s too risky. Those agents will be discovered well before they reach the magister.”

“I believe that’s where I come in,” Ciri said. “He wishes an envoy. Let’s give him one.”

“And while the attention’s on you, we dismantle the trap,” Cullen concluded. “It could work, but it’s still dangerous.”

"Did you miss the part where an assassin tried to kill me in my sleep in Val Royeaux?" Ciri asked rhetorically. "What part of this hasn't been dangerous? I'll take my chances."

The door to the War Room swung open, and Dorian Pavus swaggered in, a scout rushing along in his wake. All eyes turned to the intruder.

“Fortunately, you’ll have help,” Dorian declared.

"This man says he has information on the magister and his methods, sers," the scout said. Cullen dismissed him with a nod, and the scout shut the door behind him.

Dorian nodded at Ciri and leveled a challenging look at the advisors. “You’ll never get past Alexius’ magic without my help. So if you’re going after him, I’m coming along.”

“Of course,” Ciri said before anyone could reject his help. “Thank you for coming, Dorian.”

“Don’t thank me until we’ve stopped Alexius.”

Cullen looked resigned. “This plan puts you in a great deal of danger, Lady Ciri. But I know better than to try to talk you out of it.”

“I appreciate your restraint,” she said dryly.

“Have you considered who you’ll take with you?” Josephine asked. “We may be able to pass off a small party as an official delegation.”

She cut a sideways look at Dorian. “Don’t look at me,” he said. “I thought I’d lurk in the shadows and make a dramatic appearance when the time was right. If he knows I’m with you, it’ll tip him off.”

“Then Olgierd and Triss, if we can put off leaving until tomorrow,” Ciri said.

Cullen and Cassandra exchanged a look that had Ciri's hackles rising again. "It would be best if you only brought one of them, Lady Hand," Cassandra said. "They are your friends, yes, but a recently Harrowed mage and an apostate are not the sorts of representation the Inquisition needs."

“Von Everec would be the safer choice,” Cullen suggested.

Ciri eyed him skeptically. “Just the other day you said you distrusted him.”

“He’s a Harrowed mage now,” Cullen said. “He’s proven his ability to withstand demonic temptation. His abilities unsettle me still, I’ll admit that much, but there’s no longer any worry that those abilities mean he’s at a greater risk of possession.”

Templars, Ciri thought, were illogical. Nothing had changed about Olgierd’s mind, or his magic, or even his morals in the hours before and after his Harrowing. Yet they seemed to think he’d become an entirely different man.

“Olgierd, then,” she said reluctantly. Triss was the better choice, but they knew nothing of her background. To them, Triss was a runaway apprentice, not a magical advisor to kings. And if she couldn’t bring Triss, then Solas certainly wouldn’t be welcome.

“I would be glad to accompany you and see justice done,” Cassandra offered.

However bluntly stated, it felt like an attempt at an olive branch. If she wished, she could simply reach out and take it. But her anger over the Harrowing, and Cassandra’s arguments for it, still simmered.

“I’m going to recruit the mages,” she said bluntly. “The _free_ mages. We’re not making this attempt simply to get them back under the Chantry’s thumb.”

Cassandra’s mouth twisted in discontent. “I understand. Still, I would stand with you. The Maker brought you to us for a reason. Perhaps your choices are His way of showing us a new path forward.”

Chancellor Roderick looked uneasy at her words. “I should hope you would consider it a grave responsibility, Lady Ciri, and not an opportunity to sow chaos. Justinia entrusted you with her legacy. Use it wisely.”

"I believe I am," she told him and looked to Cassandra. "I'd thought perhaps Blackwall – but you're welcome. Of course."

“Then it’s decided,” Leliana said. “We’ll leave tomorrow. Josephine, Chancellor, will you see to whatever preparations are necessary for the mages when they arrive?”

“My time might be best spent trying to find a good way to explain all this to the Chantry,” Chancellor Roderick said. “Without inciting them to take action again.”

"If you need assistance drafting a letter, I'm happy to help," Josephine told him. She looked pleased with the thought.

“I will choose the scouts for this mission,” Leliana said. “I’m sure you have other things that need doing, Lady Ciri. We won’t keep you.”

“Come on,” Ciri said, beckoning Dorian to follow her from the War Room. “I’ll show you around.”

“Did I hear correctly?” he asked quietly as they left the advisors behind. “There was a Harrowing recently?”

Ciri nodded. “Just before you arrived. Olgierd is still sleeping it off.”

Dorian brightened. “How marvelous! I’ve arrived in time for the party.”

She gave him a blank look. “I suppose that’s one of the cultural differences between Southern Thedas and Tevinter?”

“No party? What a shame. It’s a grand coming of age in the Tevinter Circles,” Dorian said. His hands waved expressively as he spoke. “We had all my favorite foods at mine, and everyone brought gifts – trinkets, really, little enchanted baubles or interesting spellbooks. I was tutored for weeks leading up to it, nothing left to chance except my own strength of will.”

“And how was it?” she asked. This sounded quite different from the way the Chantry here went about things.

“Oh, it was delightful. I met a perfectly lovely desire demon. It fed me grapes as we lay on a bed of pillows," he said and winked. "Then it tried to possess me. Just goes to show that you can never trust a lover that's prettier than you are."

Ciri thought wryly of her scars and white-streaked hair, and she forced a smile. “I’ll be sure to watch my back, then.”

Dorian looked instantly apologetic, but before he could say anything, Triss waved them over from outside Ciri’s bedroom door, calling her name quietly.

“What did they want with you?” Triss asked as Ciri drew near.

Ciri lowered her voice, not wanting to wake Olgierd. “We leave on the morrow for Redcliffe Castle. Magister Alexius has extended an invitation, and I’m to head a small delegation while Leliana sneaks in her agents through the back.”

“I’ll pack my things,” Triss said at once.

“I could only bring one other mage with me,” Ciri said apologetically, “and they would rather it be Olgierd, now that he’s done their Harrowing.”

Triss crossed her arms and glared at the door at the far end of the chantry. “They are so – so – _backwards_. They force him through their barbaric Fade ritual and suddenly he’s the better option? When _I_ have the formal education and the greater range of spells at my disposal?”

“Triss,” Ciri said carefully, mindful of Dorian’s presence, “you’re a runaway apprentice. They’re being stupid, but it’s not Olgierd’s fault.”

“No,” Triss admitted, slumping against the wall. “It’s not. Damn it. I should be there to watch your back, to help with the rebel mages.”

“Ride there with us anyway,” Ciri offered. “Even if you can’t come to the castle. Once we have the mages in hand, you can help get them settled.”

“I can do that,” Triss said. She still seemed dissatisfied, but less unhappy than before. “I’ll still pack, then. Do you want me to tell anyone else to come?”

“Solas and Varric,” Ciri decided. “And Blackwall. Tell them they’re staying back in Redcliffe as a last resort.”

“If things go wrong, we’ll need all the help we can get,” Triss said.

“It shouldn’t, but we’ll be careful.”

Triss left with a nod to Ciri and Dorian, and Dorian turned to Ciri with a curious look.

“How many apostates are there in your organization?”

“Too many by the Inquisition’s count,” she said. “There’s me, Triss, Solas, and Olgierd – though I suppose Olgierd’s a Chantry-approved mage now.”

“Were you one of the infamous runaways we hear so much about in Tevinter, or did you manage to avoid the Circles altogether?”

Ciri smiled a little, thinking of her lessons with Yennefer and her brief, disastrous time at Aretuza. “I’ve never seen the inside of a Circle in my life. My mother taught me most of what I know about magic, and my father and uncles taught me swordplay.”

“The apple didn’t fall far from the tree, then,” Dorian said.

She didn’t correct him, pleased by the comparison. “No, it didn’t.” She began walking toward the chantry doors, leaving Dorian to catch up. “I’ll show you around.”

“Splendid! And then let’s go to the tavern. Tell me, do they have anything better than the swill Fereldens seem to think passes for ale around here?”

She laughed. “You’re doomed to disappointment, my friend.”

* * *

Their party gathered in the Gull and Lantern, Redcliffe’s only tavern, before Ciri ventured forth to the castle with Olgierd and Cassandra. They’d parted ways with Leliana and her agents well before they’d reached the village gates, leaving Dorian behind to sneak in with them. The tavern patrons, a mix of villagers and mages, watched their small group with equal parts wariness and hope.

Blackwall and Varric claimed a table in the corner for their group. Varric sat with one eye on the other customers while Blackwall took the farthest seat, setting his back to the wall. “Someone should wait outside the castle gates,” he said quietly. “Without a runner to come back to alert us, we won’t know things have gone to shit until it’s too late to help.”

“That’s my job,” Triss told him. She matched his quiet tone, eyes alert for eavesdroppers.

“With any luck, we’ll have no need for it,” Olgierd said.

As Ciri watched, his face grew pensive, and his hand drifted to his sleeve. He’d done that several times since waking from his rest after the Harrowing. It was a new gesture that pricked her curiosity. Little about him seemed changed, though he’d been less inclined to stay up past the others to stargaze on the journey to Redcliffe. Perhaps he felt more comfortable in the Fade now. Perhaps she’d been wrong, and the Harrowing _had_ changed things. She'd press him later when things weren't so urgent and they had a bit of privacy.

“Regardless, it should be you, Merigold, not me,” he said. “This cause is dearer to you than to any of the rest of us.”

“The Chantry has spoken,” Triss said, giving Cassandra an arch look. “You’re one of them now, as far as they see it. Besides, I’m better positioned to run for help if it’s needed. And you’ll have Ciri’s back if she needs it.”

“For as long as she wishes it,” Olgierd agreed. He didn’t address the rest of it.

Cassandra ignored Triss’ dig with the sort of stern forbearance she usually brought to such conversations. Ciri had been tempted to make a few herself over the journey to Redcliffe, but Olgierd had seemed not to hold the Harrowing against Cassandra, and if they could manage to be calmly professional, then it was no business of hers to carry on angrily in his place.

“Be mindful of treachery, _da’len_ ,” Solas advised. “Expecting it does not mean you can counter it. The strange time magic here caused you trouble. Take care not to fall into a second trap while avoiding the first.”

“I’ll do my best,” Ciri promised. “And I have a few new spells now, thanks to you.”

Solas had a proud glint in his eye at that, but still, he cautioned her, "Play to your strengths. A Tevinter magister has far more training in the arcane arts than I've had time to give you."

“We shall be on our guard, Solas,” Cassandra said. “Do not worry unnecessarily. Leliana has things well in hand.”

Solas inclined his head, not quite conceding to her argument. “Let us hope so.”

“Shall we?” Ciri stood from the table, and Olgierd, Cassandra, and Triss followed suit.

Varric tossed her a friendly salute, settling down deeper into his seat. “Watch yourself, Songbird. We’ll hold down the tavern.”

“Thanks, Varric.”

Ciri adjusted her swords across her back and straightened her belt so her dagger lay close to her hand, and she led the way back out of the tavern. She saw no sign of more Tevinter mages on the short walk to the castle gates, but it seemed everyone in the village knew their business. Conversations hushed and eyes followed them as they passed.

A stony-eyed guard raised the portcullis, waving them through. Triss stopped short.

“I’ll wait here,” she said, smiling politely at the guard, who ignored her.

“Follow me,” the guard grunted.

They fell in behind the guard, leaving Triss on the other side of the portcullis as they ventured farther into the castle courtyard. The guard led them up a flight of stone stairs to a sturdy wooden door, which he opened and gestured for them to walk through with a short jerk of his head.

“Don’t keep the magister waiting.”

A single person waited in the small anteroom, dressed in ornate gray and white clothing that mirrored what Magister Alexius and Felix had worn on Ciri’s first trip to Redcliffe. He studied them from behind a blank, full-face steel mask, then beckoned silently.

 _Ugh_. _Is this one of the cultists? No wonder Felix worries for his father._

The cultist led them from the anteroom and through another door, this time into what looked to be a great hall or throne room. A number of other cultists stood silently to the sides of the room by the tall stone pillars. At the far end, lounging on the arl’s seat, was Magister Alexius. Felix and Grand Enchanter Fiona stood to each side, Felix close at hand and Fiona at the bottom of the steps like a petitioner. A fire burned in the hearth behind the seat – the only light besides the high windows.

“Announce us,” she ordered the silent cultist, voice ringing with her grandmother’s stern tones.

A Ferelden man wearing a supercilious sneer approached, eyeing their small party dismissively. “The magister’s invitation was for Lady Morhen alone,” he said. “The others must stay behind.”

“This is an official Inquisition delegation,” Ciri replied swiftly. “Surely Magister Alexius doesn’t wish to start these negotiations off on the wrong foot by offending our people.”

The man’s sneer deepened, but he bowed his head and turned on his heel, leading the way up the short flight of stairs and down the long carpet to the humble throne.

“My lord magister, the agents of the Inquisition have arrived,” the Ferelden man announced.

Alexius stood from the arl’s seat, a broad smile on his face that didn’t reach his cold eyes. “My friend! What a pleasure to see you again. And your colleagues, of course. I would offer you refreshments, but I have a feeling you’d rather get down to business.”

“And what of me?” Fiona asked angrily. “Will you leave me out of the negotiations?”

“Now, Fiona, this anger is unbecoming,” Alexius scolded her. “You and I have already concluded our negotiations. If you didn’t trust me, you wouldn’t have put your people’s lives in my hands.”

“The Grand Enchanter’s voice is a welcome one in this discussion,” Ciri interjected. She had a fair idea of how Alexius came to be 'trusted' by Fiona. That he’d used his time magic to back Fiona into a corner and erase her options was both clever and abhorrent.

Fiona seemed surprised that Ciri would advocate for her. “Thank you.”

Alexius’ smarmy smile faded some at that, and he turned and retook his stolen seat. “The Inquisition needs mages to close the Breach and I have them,” he began. “So, what shall you offer in exchange?”

He leaned back, his face, his bearing, everything about him giving the impression of a man who believed he held all the cards. The fire behind him cast his face into shadow, darkening his forehead and carving pits into his cheeks. Ciri had the unsettling feeling she was negotiating with a particularly smug skull.

“The Inquisition has ties to nobility in the Free Marches and Orlais,” she said, “not to mention the backing of the Chantry. Should you desire compensation for preventing the end of the world, something suitable can be arranged.”

“I fail to see what the Southern nobility could offer that I don’t already possess,” Alexius dismissed. “And I’m afraid that as a member of the Magisterium, any compensation from your Southern Chantry would be looked upon with disfavor. Do you have anything else?”

Felix finally spoke, and when he did, Ciri mentally swore. _Damn it! I was trying to stall!_

“I told her everything, Father.”

Alexius twisted in his seat to look up at his son, suspicion and dread slowly filling his eyes. “Felix...what have you done?”

“He came to me out of concern for you,” Ciri said. “He’s afraid you’re involved in something terrible.”

“So speaks the _thief_!” Alexius snarled. “You dare try to turn my son against me? You walk into my stronghold, a stolen mark on your hand – a gift you don’t even understand – and think you’re in control.” He scoffed. “You’re nothing but a mistake.”

“A Surprise, perhaps,” she said lightly, unable to restrain herself from making the joke, “but no mistake.”

He glowered, unamused.

“What is this mark, then, if you know so much about it?” she asked.

“It belongs to your betters,” Alexius said, rising from his seat. “You couldn’t even begin to understand.”

“Father, listen to yourself!” Felix implored. “Do you know what you sound like?”

Dorian appeared from behind one of the thick stone columns, and Ciri felt tension she didn’t realize she was carrying release between her shoulders.

“He sounds like a sneering villain straight out of bad Orlesian theatre,” Dorian said. He walked over with an air of self-assuredness Ciri rather envied, not a hair out of place or a speck of dust on his robes to give away his journey through the back entrance.

Alexius’ anger changed then, drawing inwards at the sight of him. “Dorian,” he greeted him, voice grave. “I gave you a chance to be a part of this. You turned me down. The Elder One has power you would not believe. He will raise the Imperium to triumphs beyond imagination! We will rule from Par Vollen to the Sundered Sea!”

“You can’t involve my people in this!” Fiona protested.

“Oh, that’s just _fucking_ brilliant,” Ciri burst out. “A charismatic cult leader with an intimidating title rallies the populace back home with ideas of expanding the homeland, and people just jump right in, blindly following him down the bloody path. Never mind the burned fields, the dead villagers, the raped women – it’s all for the glory of the empire! Really? Are you that blind?”

“Well, to be fair, Tevinter has never been good at saying no to bad ideas,” Dorian said with a rueful sort of smirk, then he sobered and took a step forward. “Alexius, this is exactly what you and I talked about never wanting to happen. Why would you do this?”

“Stop this, Father,” Felix added. “Give up the Venatori. Let the Southern mages fight the Breach, and let’s go home. Together.”

“No, Felix! He can save you!” Alexius seemed desperate, close to the edge.

“Save me?”

“There is a way – the Elder One promised. If I undo the mistake at the temple...” Alexius trailed off and looked at Ciri with hard eyes.

“I’m going to die, Father,” Felix said implacably. “You need to accept that.”

“Seize them,” Alexius ordered his men. “The Elder One demands this woman’s life.”

Ciri reached for her sword, but the sound of falling bodies, of last gasps and dying gurgles, reached her ears instead of men leaping to action. She glanced behind her and saw Leliana’s scouts appearing from behind the pillars.

"Your men are dead, Alexius," she declared and took a single step forward to stand by Dorian.

The last strands of civility holding Alexius back seemed to snap behind his eyes.

“ _You...are a mistake_ ,” he growled. He extended a hand, and a strange green-black amulet began to float above his palm, throwing off eerie sparks.

“ _You should_ never _have existed._ ”

“NO!” Dorian shouted, and flung a spell into Alexius’ hand.

The amulet spat out a rippling green disc of light, too fast to dodge or counter, and the last thing Ciri saw before it swallowed her and Dorian was Olgierd and Cassandra, both reaching for her.


	22. High Stakes and Horror

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ciri and Dorian are catapulted into a bleak future, where familiar faces await them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> beta-read by brightspot149. Thank you!

The rippling disc of light spat Ciri out with a dizzying jolt, and she hit the wet stone floor on hands and knees, her skin crawling from the heavy, cloying magic that coated her. She heard Dorian swear behind her, and she regained her footing, turning to see where they were.

It was a far cry from the dimly lit hall they'd just been in, small and cramped with thick stone walls. There was only one entrance, and the iron door of a cell barred their way.

“What did he do?” Ciri demanded. “What did you do?”

“Alexius seemed determined to erase you from history, possibly to prevent you from being at the Temple of Sacred Ashes in the first place,” Dorian said. He glanced about uneasily. “I...redirected the spell, for lack of a better word. We’ve been relocated to the closest confluence of arcane energy. The question may not be where, but when.”

“You could redirect it? Just like that?” Ciri asked. It had been so sudden. Dorian had shouted, and his spell had struck Alexius’ in the blink of an eye.

Dorian nodded. “I did say I was involved in creating this magic. Only the theory, mind you, but that’s enough to stop Alexius from wiping you off the face of Thedas.”

Ciri turned away to examine the stone walls. “We may still be in the castle. Or in any other castle in Ferelden, honestly.”

“There’s only one way to find out, and it’s through that door,” Dorian said, gesturing to the bars blocking their way.

“I may have a way out of this,” Ciri said reluctantly. She’d done so well at keeping the truth of her skills hidden, but being thrown into a time not their own seemed dire enough to warrant honesty. “Stand close to me.”

Dorian looked curious but didn't protest as he walked to her side. Ciri pulled on her magic, gripping Dorian by the wrist, and readied herself to step into the ether.

Every muscle in her body shrieked as she was forcibly shoved back into the here and now. Dorian wrapped a supportive arm around her shoulders as she trembled.

“That didn’t go as planned, I take it?”

“There’s no in-between,” she gasped. “Something’s gone horribly wrong.”

“Of course it has,” Dorian said. “We didn’t travel through time so much as punch a hole through it and toss it into the privy. But don’t worry. I’m here – I’ll protect you.”

Ciri pulled away, her legs still weak, and gave him a small smile. “I appreciate that, truly. I’m not one for letting others fight my battles for me, but I don’t think I could stand being stranded here on my own.”

“With any luck, we can recreate the circumstances that sent us here,” Dorian said. “We’ll simply have to investigate.”

He took a moment to ensure she was able to stand on her own, then wandered off to inspect the door. “We could certainly use some convenient guards bursting in with the key right about now, couldn’t we?” he said lightly.

“Perhaps a mind blast on the lock?” Ciri suggested.

“An excellent idea.”

The shockwave of spirit energy broke open the door, sending it flying into the wall with a loud _clang_. Ciri froze, waiting for someone to notice, but when no one came she relaxed.

“Come on,” she said. “Let’s see where – and when – we are.”

They left the stone cell behind, water sloshing around their ankles, and made for the stairs. “Do you have any idea who this ‘Elder One’ is?” Ciri asked.

“The leader of the Venatori, I suspect,” Dorian replied. His voice echoed off the stone walls as they walked upward. “Just another magister with delusions of godhood, hiding behind a title so his activities can’t be pinned on him if they fail.”

“Are delusions of godhood common among magisters?”

“Fairly uncommon, actually, but delusions of supremacy are rather widespread. Oh, the infighting and petty politicking are something to behold.”

Ciri hummed in thought. If this Elder One was behind the Temple of Sacred Ashes, and he was a magister, then it seemed unlikely it could have been caused by a descendant of the ancient Elvhen. “Do any of the magisters claim Elvhen ancestry?”

Dorian laughed. “Not out loud, they don’t!” He spotted the serious look on her face and sobered. “There have been elf-blooded magisters, it’s true, but the Imperium is ruled by humans. A laetan elven mage might gain status, but they’d never rule anything. The altus families come from the old human dreamers. The Imperium warred with Elvhenan in its early years – we sank Arlathan in one of the final battles. If any of the old families have Elvhen blood, they’ve kept quiet about it.”

The creaking sound of a door opening on the landing above them made Ciri freeze again, and she threw out an arm to stop Dorian.

“–Hate going down to the dungeon,” a voice said – a young man, from the sound of it. “I don’t mean to be rude, but the lower levels make my skin crawl.”

“No, I agree,” said another man. “And I grew up here.”

“Do you think the wolves are right? That the castle’s haunted?”

“No. It's all those blasted demons and all the bad memories from when the Venatori were here. Keep your eyes peeled. They said the amulet indicated activity down in the dungeon, and it could be anything."

Ciri unsheathed _Zireael_ with a quiet rasp of steel against leather and edged around the stairwell to see who the speakers were. Two young men were walking down, one human and one elven, both with staves in their hands. With a start of relief, she realized she recognized the elven man from Redcliffe.

“It’s alright,” she called out quietly. “It’s just us – Ciri, from the Inquisition, and Dorian Pavus. We were thrown here by Alexius’ spell.”

They stopped and stared, eyes wide. “Lady Ciri?” the elven man said hesitantly.

She nodded.

“You’ve been missing for almost a year,” the human told her. “It’s Nine Forty-Two. Harvestmere.”

“We suspected we’d been displaced,” Ciri said, shooting a look at Dorian, “but we didn’t know how far. What’s happened? Where’s Alexius?” _Why can’t I travel through time?_

“Dead,” the human said frankly. “And good riddance. The wolves came with their mages and killed him, freeing us and the Inquisition prisoners. We’re one of the last holdouts in Thedas against the Elder One.”

“They’ll be glad to see you,” the elven man said. “Come on, we’ll take you to them.”

Ciri and Dorian exchanged another look. This didn’t feel like a trap. Their body language was open – relieved and welcoming. She sheathed her sword and nodded. “Lead the way.”

The two young men introduced themselves on the walk. The elven mage was named Lysas, and the human was Connor Guerrin, nephew to Arl Teagan of Redcliffe. They passed small groups of people as they went, some tending to wounded, others organizing weapons. They all had a lean edge to them, the sort she’d often seen in the mirror after several short nights and a few too many missing meals.

Certain areas made Connor and Lysas tense and look around warily as they passed, Lysas chanting, "Calm thoughts, calm thoughts," under his breath until they'd moved on.

Their wariness was infectious. Ciri and Dorian began to eye their surroundings cautiously, walking on light feet. As they passed through another dusty and disused room, Lysas started his chant again, and Ciri reached for her sword.

“Don’t!” Connor hissed. “You’ll get their attention!”

“Whose attention?”

“Too late!” Lysas moaned, gripping his staff tightly as the air warped before them.

A terror demon, long-limbed and beady-eyed, was suddenly _there_ among them. Ciri leaped back, drawing _Zireael_. The demon glared down and lashed out at Connor with its claws, forcing him back a pace as Lysas cast a hasty barrier over everyone.

It shrieked, a high, grating sound that sent shivers down her spine. She ducked its next swing and struck out with her blade as it bent its knees to leap. Blue-white lightning flew from Dorian’s staff. It shrieked and leaped again, one long leg limp and oozing ichor.

Connor slammed his staff down as the demon descended, staggering it with a heavy mind blast. Ciri darted forward and pressed the attack, dodging swinging claws as her sword drew ichor again and again.

Finally it fell. Just as suddenly as it had appeared, it vanished, leaving behind only a puddle of slimy green blood to show it had ever been there.

Ciri turned on her escorts. “What was that about?”

“I forgot you wouldn’t know,” Lysas said. “There’s no Veil. The rifts just widened and widened, until…. After the wolves freed us, we went outside and saw a green sky, with rocks floating in it. The Fade and the physical world are one now.”

Connor grimaced. "Demons prefer certain parts of the castle. Places where people died or were tortured. If you keep your wits about you and your mind quiet, you can make it through those areas without summoning one. But often as not, they just show up."

“No – no _Veil_?” Dorian sputtered. “ _Kaffas_ , what in Andraste’s name did Alexius do?”

“He broke it,” Connor said as they began walking again. There was something bleak in his face, a look that said he’d been through far too much in his short life. “The explosion at the temple started it, with the rifts. The time magic made them unstable. We don’t know exactly how, but we think the Elder One did something to tear it down once it was damaged enough.”

“If the Templars knew magic could do _this_ , they never would have let us out,” Lysas muttered. “These Venatori – I can’t look at magic the same way anymore. All I wanted was to...to help make crops grow!”

Ciri felt sick. “But surely they’re a minority. Once they’re defeated, you can use magic to help people, just as you wanted.”

Connor shook his head. “Even if we could defeat them, there’s hardly anything left in this world worth saving.”

They stopped at a small door, and Dorian looked surprised. “This is how we got into the great hall earlier, with the scouts,” he told Ciri.

Connor nodded. “It’s better not to go through the courtyard these days, or the ballroom. Most people lose their lunch looking at the sky the first few times, and demons like to pop up in the ballroom almost every day.”

“Good to know,” Ciri said. She hoped it wasn’t information she’d need for long.

“They’ll be glad to see you,” Lysas said earnestly. “Only...it’s been a hard year. On all of us.”

“I understand.”

Lysas opened the door and led them in. Over his shoulder, Ciri could see a small group of people in battered armor standing around a table in the center of the great hall. They seemed to be arguing, voices kept low. She spotted white hair and a scarred face, and her heart skipped a beat.

“ _After the wolves freed us,”_ Lysas had said.

“ _The wolves came with their mages,”_ Connor had said.

“Geralt?” she called out, pushing gently past Lysas.

Her father straightened abruptly, like a bolt of lightning had hit him, and he whirled around. “Ciri,” he said hoarsely, face slack with disbelief. Over his shoulder, Yennefer and Eskel pushed away from the table, eyes wide and incredulous.

“Ciri!” Yennefer cried, rounding the table and running to her.

Ciri was in motion before she could think, darting across the hall to fling herself into her mother’s arms. She could feel Yennefer tremble as she tightened her embrace. Barely a second passed before Geralt was there, wrapping his arms around them both.

“You need to stop disappearing like this,” he said simply. “You’re going to turn my hair white.”

She laughed and pulled away, smiling. “No fair blaming that on me.”

“Oh, darling, it’s so good to see you,” Yennefer said. She cupped Ciri’s cheek with a soft hand, looking at her with tired eyes. “We’ve been monitoring that amulet the magister had, but we couldn’t unravel it for fear of preventing your reappearance.”

“Thank you,” Ciri said. “For trying.”

She looked over her parents’ shoulders to see the others who’d been at the table. There was Eskel, his scarred face a welcome sight, and Triss, wearing an expression of unabashed relief. Solas looked staggered at the sight of her, while Fiona just looked exhausted. Cassandra seemed overwhelmed. Olgierd looked as relieved as Triss. And Leliana had a fire burning in her eyes.

"Well," she said and shrugged awkwardly. "I'm sorry we're late."

She wasn’t sure who moved first, but suddenly Triss was there, then Eskel, firm arms around her and brief, fervent greetings whispered in her ears. Cassandra came over to touch her shoulder tentatively as if she couldn't quite believe her eyes.

“It’s really you,” she said, her tentative touch turning into a strong grip. “The Maker has brought you back to us. Andraste forgive me, we failed to stop the magister – this is all our fault, Lady Hand.”

“Nonsense,” Ciri disagreed. “There was nothing you could have done to stop him.”

Solas came over then, the shock on his face transformed into something far less readable. “Ciri,” he greeted her.

“Not _da’len_?”

His eyes flicked to Geralt and Yennefer. “The Elvhen are not from your world,” he said. “But it is good to see you, nonetheless.”

 _Ah_. Of course that cat would be out of its bag by now. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be,” he said. “It was my mistake.”

He nodded to her then, and stepped aside, giving her a clear path to see Olgierd. Her friend still stood at the table, watching her quietly. His deep blue robe, the gift from Josephine, had seen better days, and it had clearly been at least several months since he’d shaved the sides of his head. She smiled, and he reached for something leaning against the table – a cane? – and began to make his way slowly, painfully, over to where she stood, limping heavily with each step.

“What did they do?” she asked, staring in horror.

Bitterness laced his smile. “Never you mind, dear. The ones who did it are all dead and rotted.”

"The magister's torturers took his scars as a challenge," Leliana said as she joined them. Ciri did a double-take at the sight of her face. Her forehead and left cheek were just shiny, slick patches of scar tissue, like someone had peeled off her skin with a very sharp blade. “The fool should be off his feet, but he hardly listens to us.”

“I’ll sit when I’m dead,” Olgierd replied. It sounded like an old argument.

Fiona still stood by the table, watching the reunion with tired eyes. She nodded to Ciri and turned back to whatever was on it, apparently uninterested in greeting a woman she barely knew. Ciri looked around curiously.

“But where are the others – Lambert and Keira? And Blackwall and Varric?”

“Varric fell in one of the Elder One’s assaults on the castle some months ago, along with a dozen mages,” Cassandra said. “I was told that Blackwall was lost when your family took Redcliffe from the Venatori.”

 _Damn it_.

“And Keira and Lambert?” she asked again.

Yennefer looked troubled. “They went missing two weeks ago. They’re the ones who teleport to other enclaves for information and supplies. At this point, we suspect the worst.”

“Why did you stay?” she demanded. To lose Lambert and Keira…. Her gut clenched. “Why stay and fight?”

“Because we knew you’d show up again,” Geralt said. “We weren’t going to leave you to face this alone.”

“We stand by our own, kid,” Eskel said gruffly. “Even in nightmare worlds overrun by demons.”

“When Triss came to get us, we were prepared to burn Thedas to the ground for taking you away,” Yennefer said. Her voice shook with repressed anger. “The only thing that held us back was finding that amulet.”

Ciri turned to Dorian. “Can you reverse this? Send us back?”

“You say the amulet is here? Then I believe I can," he said and looked at Yennefer. "Dorian Pavus, by the way. You said you were studying it?"

"The magical energies emanating from it were hard to ignore," Yennefer said. "We could tell it did something to time, but what exactly that was, was beyond our reach. Eventually, Solas managed to set up a monitoring spell to alert us when it threw off extra energy."

“We knew something was going to happen today,” Triss said. “We didn’t dare to hope it would be you.”

“We’re here now,” Dorian said. “Let’s change that, shall we?” He looked around, the corners of his mouth turned down in a small frown. “I don’t suppose Felix survived your assault on Redcliffe.”

“Your friend Felix was unharmed when we took the castle,” Yennefer said, “unlike his father. He passed from his illness a few months ago.”

Dorian sighed. “Oh.”

Yennefer gave Ciri a gentle squeeze to her upper arm and led Dorian off to the end of the great hall, by the lonely arl’s seat upon the stairs. Ciri looked up at Geralt and squared her shoulders.

“You’d best tell me what’s happened since we disappeared. I’ll need to know everything this ‘Elder One’ did if I’m to stop him when we get back to our time.”

“Where to even start?” Olgierd said. He chuckled dryly, humor absent from his eyes. “Leliana, Cassandra, and I attacked the magister the moment you disappeared, but he held us off long enough for his reinforcements to arrive and subdue us. I don’t think any of us saw the outside of a cell for over two months, save the times we were dragged out and ‘questioned.’”

“King Alistair arrived just as you were sent through time,” Triss said. “I stayed to help, but the magister’s forces killed everyone he brought, including the king. I fled back to the village to get Solas and the others, and we retreated to Haven. We launched attacks, but nothing worked, and we kept losing people. After too long trying on my own, I went back home to get help from the Continent.”

From the look Geralt shot her, Triss’ delay in seeking their help was still a point of contention.

“The Inquisition was splintering at that point,” Solas interjected. “The Elder One had Empress Celene assassinated, destabilizing the empire. Then he raised an army of demons tied to mages bound by blood magic, and he swept across Thedas. Ferelden fell first, then Orlais. The Inquisition crumpled in the face of it.”

“Triss, Keira, and Yen teleported us into the castle with a few of the Inquisition’s people,” Geralt said. “Only the ones willing to take the chance. It was a dying organization. For the ones who came, it probably felt like the last stand.”

_And for Blackwall, it was._

“Your parents and the others freed us,” Olgierd said, “and we started making contact with others across Thedas. Quietly, mind. The time for open warfare has long since passed us by.”

Yennefer spoke up as she returned, her violet eyes alight with anger. “Which isn’t to say that we haven’t been doing our part. We took our cues from Roche’s men. Quick, hard strikes. We cut off their supply lines, ambushed their scouting parties. And we _never_ leave survivors,” she added viciously.

“It’s all we’ve been able to do,” Geralt said. At his side, his hand drew into a fist. “Wait for you, and slowly bleed them. Death by a thousand cuts.”

Ciri patted his arm reassuringly. “I’m here now. What else is there?”

“We’ve heard nothing from Val Royeaux since the grand clerics were killed,” Fiona said, speaking for the first time. “Our informants on the outside tell us that Lydes is little more than a farm for red lyrium these days. The Elder One feeds it to his soldiers, turning them into horrors.”

Leliana nodded. "After the demons laid waste to southern Thedas, the Qun saw the opportunity to strike at Tevinter and the northernmost countries. Antiva and Rivain are all but lost.”

“Is there anyone left from the Inquisition?” Ciri asked. “Owain? Josephine? Cullen?”

Olgierd’s hand clenched around the handle of his cane. “Nay. No one.”

 _No_. _Damn it all!_ “We’ll fix this,” she said desperately. “We’ll go back, and –”

“Don’t you get it?” Leliana interrupted her, eyes hot with anger. “ _This_ is not something you can fix. You show up and speak of going back, of undoing it, but we have lived every day in danger and misery. This is real to us, whether you care to believe it or not.”

“It’s real, and it’s terrible,” Ciri agreed. “And we’ll make it so you’ll never have to live through it. I’m so sorry, Leliana. If I’d only been quicker –”

Leliana scoffed and turned away. Ciri fumbled for something to say that could make things right, smooth things over, but words turned to ash in her mouth. Leliana was right. She’d disappeared, and the world had broken around the people left behind. For those remaining, the suffering was very real.

“We’re all on edge,” Solas said quietly, watching Leliana’s back. “Briala has been slow getting food to us this week.”

“The handmaiden from Mihris’ tale?” Ciri asked, surprised.

“Celene’s former spymaster,” Cassandra corrected her. “We would not have survived this without her, though she puts her own people first. Somehow, the elves of Orlais all but vanished after Celene was assassinated and Gaspard died in battle against the demons.”

Ciri nodded her understanding and walked to the table to see what everyone had been looking at when she’d first arrived. In a parallel to the war room in the chantry, the table was covered in a map of southern Thedas. Instead of pewter markers, however, thick lines crossed out entire towns, littering the map with a field of exes.

Haven was gone, she saw, as was Redcliffe Village just next door. There was no Ostwick, no Val Royeaux. Every place she thought to look for seemed to no longer exist.

“Keira and Lambert brought you this information?” she asked, swallowing hard.

“And some scouts,” Eskel said. “Spirits.” He looked uneasy.

“There’s one out there now, watching the Elder One’s army,” Solas said. “A spirit of adventure. He has never let us down.”

“He’s late,” Olgierd said. The gruffness in his voice didn’t quite manage to disguise his worry.

“He’ll be fine,” Solas assured him. “He always is.”

Ciri looked at Olgierd, his face tight with pain. “Is there anything I can do to help?”

He shook his head. “Best you stay close while that Tevinter mage works out how to get you home.”

“Ciri,” Triss said, “why didn’t you leave as soon as you came?”

She shuddered and rubbed her arms at the memory of her failed attempt. “I can’t. It wouldn’t work, for whatever reason. Something’s broken in this future.”

Solas looked as though he wished to say something, but he refrained, simply watching her closely. His eyes were piercing in his tired, drawn face. All of them looked like they wished to speak, in fact, but they all seemed equally reluctant. She had her suspicions as to why.

“If you have anything you wish me to tell your past selves, I’ll just be over there,” she said, pointing to a low bench half-hidden in the shadow of a column.

They looked at each other, then away, none of them willing to be the first to speak. She gave a mental sigh and walked to the bench, sitting down on the wooden seat and leaning against the cool stone column.

One misstep, one second too slow, and everything went wrong. She hadn’t felt so powerless in years. Even seeing her parents wasn’t enough to erase the sting of failure. This – this was her fault. All the deaths, all the loss, it could have been avoided if she’d just been fast enough. The Inquisition shattered, heads of state murdered, Owain and his siblings dead, _Lambert and Keira missing_ –

“Think any louder, they’ll hear you on the floor below.”

She shifted to make room for Geralt. “Let them,” she said bitterly. “It’s not as if I’m thinking anything untrue.”

“Let me guess,” he said. “It’s all your fault? Everything that’s happened, all the deaths, all the suffering, that’s all on your shoulders?”

“How did you –”

“I may just be a simple Witcher, but I know how you think.” He gave her a grim smile. “You’re not thinking anything that Yen and I weren’t thinking about ourselves when we heard you were missing.”

She flicked a curious glance at him. “How was any of this your doing?”

“We encouraged you to go, to take the contract to get out from under the Lodge’s eyes. Everything that followed is a consequence of that decision.”

“You can’t blame yourself for encouraging me to take a contract,” she argued. “That’s what we do. And if I hadn’t been there –” She stopped.

“If you hadn’t been there, this world would’ve gone to shit a lot sooner,” he said.

“He’s right, you know,” Yennefer said as she walked over to join them. “They would have been lost without you. But this isn’t your fight, Ciri. When you get back, seal the Breach and come home. You’ve given enough of yourself to this cause.”

“I can’t leave them!” Ciri looked up at her mother, hoping she’d understand. “If all this happened just because I disappeared, then I must help. Now that I know what’s to come, I can do something about it.”

“Or you could tell them and let them take care of it themselves,” Yennefer countered calmly.

“The Elder One is beyond dangerous,” Geralt said, “and his army is enormous. The blood magic means that anyone he captures can be turned against you. Ciri, he _broke_ this world. The demonic plane poured into the physical world. That kind of power is beyond you.”

“I stopped the White Frost!”

Her voice rang out through the great hall, and heads turned her way as she snapped at Geralt – louder than she’d intended, but the guilt and fear and anger had come to a head.

“I slew Leo Bonhart and Reince, Brewess and Whispess,” she continued. “I faced the Wild Hunt – I’ve traveled to more worlds than you can imagine, killed vampires and basilisks and griffons. I’m a Witcher, Geralt. Fighting monsters is _what I do_. How could I live with myself if I walked away?”

Geralt and Yennefer seemed to have an entire silent conversation just with their eyes, then Geralt’s shoulders sagged and Yennefer shook her head.

“Oh, Ciri,” Yennefer sighed. “You’ve never been one for neutrality.”

“You’ll come get us if you need help,” Geralt said firmly. “I don’t doubt your skill, but this is far beyond a simple hunt or contract.”

“If it comes to it, I will,” she agreed reluctantly.

Expose her family to the dangers Geralt had just listed? Thedas would have to be in terrible danger for her to even contemplate such a thing. When she got back, she’d have a chance to stop it. No need to bring Geralt and Yennefer into it.

Geralt raised an eyebrow at her. “Ciri...”

“Fine, I promise. _If_ I need help.”

Someone cleared their throat, and she looked up to see Cassandra standing behind Yennefer awkwardly crossing and uncrossing her arms.

“Lady Hand,” she said, an undercurrent of joy in her stern voice. “May I speak with you?”

Ciri nodded, and Geralt stood, giving a firm squeeze to her shoulder.

“Come on, Yen. Let’s give them some privacy.”

Cassandra waited until Ciri’s parents had walked some distance away, then she sat heavily beside her. “It is good to see you again, my lady.”

“And you, Cassandra.”

Cassandra was silent for several long seconds. “The Maker is greater and more mysterious than I had ever imagined. To think He summoned His Hand from another world!”

“I’m not – never mind.” Perhaps this wasn’t the best time to argue theology. “You’re not angry that we kept it secret?”

“Oh, I was furious at first,” Cassandra admitted. “You lied to all of us, lied to the Chantry. I almost attacked the Witchers when I first saw their eyes. They appeared possessed. But they stayed to help, and I came to understand that the Maker was behind your presence in Thedas, just as this fiend of an Elder One and his lackey, Alexius, were behind your disappearance. You are a blessing, Lady Hand. It is surely providence that the Trevelyans reached out to you at the exact moment that they did.”

Ciri ducked her head, uncomfortable with Cassandra’s stalwart faith. “That’s a lot to live up to.”

“You will succeed,” Cassandra said. “You must. But you cannot keep this secret, Lady Hand. You must tell the advisors the truth of your origins when you return.”

“I –” She faltered beneath Cassandra’s steady gaze. “I’ll think on it.”

“I trust you will do the right thing.” Cassandra stood again and bowed her head, fist over her heart, then turned and walked away.

Ciri watched Olgierd and Solas speak quietly by the table, arguing in low tones. Olgierd shook his head and gestured with his free hand, and Solas seemed to reluctantly concede the argument. Her elven friend came over slowly, still sharp-eyed and frowning.

“If you are to tell me one thing when you return to your time, let it be that this world is an abomination,” he said stiffly. “I have seen what Thedas looks like with the Veil torn away, and it is a waking nightmare. The Elder One must be stopped.”

She tried to catch his eyes, but his glance slid away. “Solas?”

“Your magic – you felt familiar,” he said at last. “It was a comfort that I took for granted. I’m not accustomed to being so mistaken. I thought – It doesn’t matter.”

“We are still kin, as you said,” Ciri told him. “Did Triss tell you of the Aen Undod?”

“She mentioned the Trevelyans’ theory of a unified origin for the elves. It seems unlikely. I’ve come across no memories in the Fade of such a name.” He sighed and relented a little. “Perhaps it’s enough that you believe it to be true.”

“It must be, for my magic to seem Elvhen to you,” she pointed out.

“There is that to consider.” He looked away, then back, his eyes intense. “Allow me to believe the lie, Ciri. It would be a kindness.”

Somehow, the thought of lying to the advisors came easier than lying to Solas. Yet Cassandra wanted the truth, and Solas wished the lie. Would it not hurt him worse, should the secret get out later? Would he not feel betrayed, as he had in this dark timeline?

“I don’t understand,” she said. “But I’ll do as you ask.”

“You have my thanks on behalf of my past self.” He smiled at her faintly. “You should rest. Dorian Pavus will have you back in your own time soon enough.”

He gave her a nod and went back to the table, passing Olgierd on his way. Her friend limped along, leaning heavily on his cane, and she jumped to her feet to meet him.

“Nay,” he said when she gestured to the bench. “I’ll not be able to stand again should I sit on something that low.”

“What happened?” she asked again. She couldn’t stop herself from glancing at his legs.

A humorless smile twisted his lips. “Whoresons broke my legs. The bones didn’t set right. When Geralt and the others came to our rescue, they had to re-break them.”

“I’m sorry,” she said, stricken. “If I’d just dodged, been fast enough –”

“What they did was no fault of yours,” he interrupted. “Put it from your mind.”

She couldn’t, but she wouldn’t argue. For his sake.

“You mentioned a late scout,” she ventured to say.

“Adventure came when the Veil fell,” he said. “Cassandra and the Witchers dislike him, but he gets on well enough with Solas. I’d call him a friend.” He glanced toward the tall doors at the end of the hall. “He’s never so late returning.”

“Is he someone I should tell you about when I return?”

He shook his head. “I’ve already met him. Whatever comes of it is best left to the vagaries of chance.”

She couldn’t think of when he would have met a spirit, except perhaps during his Harrowing. But weren’t Harrowings about facing demons? Had one of the demons been friendly? Olgierd seemed disinclined to speak further on the subject, so she let it lie.

She looked around the dim hall, at the people clustered around the table, at Dorian at the far end of the hall hunched over the amulet, and sighed. “It’s not what we imagined it would be when we came through the portal to Thedas, is it?”

“Things are rarely as we imagine them,” Olgierd said, smiling a little.

“Do you regret coming?”

He thought for a moment, then shook his head. “Nay. Not truly. I’ve cast my lot in with them. These are my people now. I’ve done more good since coming here than I have in all the years I’ve lived on the Continent. That matters to me.”

“You’re truly staying, then,” she said. “After we close the Breach and kill this monster. You’ll stay.”

“I will, and gladly.”

She'd miss him dearly, both the man waiting back in her time and the one leaning on the cane before her. But she'd not argue him out of doing what was best for him.

“Ciri,” he said.

“Yes?”

His free hand drifted to his sleeve, where a dirty, blue-edged scrap of fabric peeked out from beneath the hem. "I may never forgive myself for my past. But tell me to try for happiness. I'd like to know if such a thing is possible."

“It is,” she told him fiercely. “It is, and you’ll find it.”

“No one would dare gainsay you,” he said, his eyes warm.

 _You would_ , she thought. But she’d make him listen. He cast a glance over his shoulder and sighed, smiling slightly at Ciri.

“This is where we part for now. Appears Triss and Fiona wish to speak with you.”

She watched as he limped away, her throat tight. Triss and Fiona took his place, both of them looking tired and worn.

“We must discuss your intentions for the mages when you return,” Fiona began. “There are –”

The door at the end of the hall slammed open, and Ciri turned to look. A man in Redanian robes burst through, wild-eyed and frantic. There was something familiar about him, something that made her think of Olgierd.

“They’re through the wards!” he shouted. “They’re in the cast – _urk_!”

An arrow punched through his chest, and he staggered, a look of surprise on his face as Olgierd cried out in anger. He dropped to his knees, green ichor pouring from his wound. All around her, the hall exploded into movement as people grabbed swords or staves and rushed toward the door.

“No!” Geralt barked at her as she unsheathed _Zireael._ “Go to Dorian – get out of here, Ciri! Go!”

Geralt and Eskel were the first out the door, holding their hands up in front of them to shape a _Quen_ shield. Cassandra, Yennefer, and Triss were right on their heels, and Fiona and Solas just behind them. Ciri retreated to the steps by the arl’s seat, hand clutching the hilt of her sword, and watched helplessly as Olgierd limped into the center of the hall, Leliana at his side.

“We cannot hold them for long,” Leliana said sharply, nocking an arrow to her bowstring. “They have come in force. Go now.”

Olgierd raised his hand and swept it in an elegant gesture from one side of the door to the other. A roaring wall of flames sprang up from the floor, devouring the wooden frame and cutting off the fight from the hall.

“Dorian?” Ciri asked urgently.

“One more minute!”

Beyond the wall of flames, she heard cries, grunts, the meaty _thunk_ of sword meeting flesh. Spell lights flared and faded. Then a scream of rage and horror – Yennefer’s. She took one step toward the door and Dorian’s hand shot out to grab her arm.

“Don’t,” he said, not looking up from the amulet. “You move, we all die.”

Something heavy flew through the flames and landed with a thud by the dying spirit.

 _No_.

She saw it, but she didn’t – it couldn’t be real. _It wasn’t real._

“Get up,” she whispered to Geralt’s body. “ _GET UP!”_

The building shook from the force of her scream, but still he lay there, white hair slowly turning red, a hole in his belly the size of a troll’s fist and a gaping wound across his throat.

Lambert, blank-faced and dull-eyed, jumped the wall of flames and made straight for Olgierd and Leliana, sword out and at the ready. Leliana’s arrows hit their mark, but he kept coming, no sound of pain or protest escaping him.

Dorian grabbed her. “I have it!”

The portal formed behind her as Lambert gutted Olgierd. She leaped through with a sob, never looking away.


	23. Returns and Revelations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ciri returns to the present shaken and angry. Olgierd's a good friend. Dorian saw and heard more in the future than Ciri realized.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> beta-read by brightspot149. Thank you!

She landed heavily but kept her feet beneath her as the time portal threw them out in front of Alexius’ stunned eyes. Serpent-quick, she snatched the amulet from his hand and pressed _Zireael_ ’s blade to his throat.

“One reason, Magister,” she spat. “Just one. Tell me why I shouldn’t relieve you of your head right here and perhaps I’ll let you keep it.”

Alexius stared at her with thwarted fury. He held still, not daring even to breathe too deeply.

Felix came over with a hand outstretched. “Please, my lady. My father will surrender. There’s no need to kill him. Won’t you, Father?”

The visions of Geralt’s corpse, of Olgierd’s death at the hands of an ensorcelled Lambert, clouded her mind, and for a brief moment, she was tempted to make him beg. She narrowed her eyes at Alexius.

“Well, Magister?”

Alexius nodded shallowly and winced as the keen edge scraped his throat. “Yes. You’ve bested me, Lady Morhen. Felix...”

“It’s going to be all right, Father,” Felix assured him.

The grief that filled Alexius’ face almost stirred Ciri to sympathy. Almost. “But you’ll die!”

Felix smiled faintly. “Everyone dies.”

“Take him away,” Ciri ordered Leliana’s agents. She didn’t lower her blade until two armed and hooded scouts came to flank him.

“Thank you,” Felix said quietly as the scouts led Alexius off. The magister seemed older, shrunken, a slump to his shoulders as he walked away.

“I did it for you and Dorian,” Ciri said, her voice sharp. “Don’t think for a moment he deserved it.”

“I know.” The slump to Felix’s shoulders matched his father’s. “He was a good man once.”

Perhaps he had been, to raise someone like Felix and be worthy of Dorian’s regard. But the things she’d heard from friends and family in that future, the images of those chaotic final moments, were impossible to forget. And none of that would have come to pass without Alexius.

Olgierd and Cassandra joined them by the dais, and Ciri had to blink back tears of relief at the sight of Olgierd walking without pain. His cry as Lambert’s sword had pierced him still echoed in her ears, and she shook her head to clear it.

“Well!” Dorian said, looking about the hall. “I’m glad that’s over with.”

As if on cue, the front doors slammed open and the sound of tramping feet marching in perfect unison filled the room. Twenty soldiers in steel and fur paraded in, taking up posts along the outside of the room and ignoring the dead Venatori at their feet.

Dorian seemed tempted to take a step back. “Or not.”

A handsome, well-dressed man strolled between the two rows of soldiers. He was quite tan, with dark blond hair. As he drew closer, Ciri could see his eyes were a rich, warm brown, and his face bore faint laugh lines. Triss followed in his wake, looking only mildly concerned.

“Grand Enchanter,” the man began, “when Arl Teagan came to Denerim accusing the mage rebellion of handing over his castle to Tevinter, I was rather surprised at you. Fortunately for you, I’m inclined to listen when people explain this sort of lunacy to me.”

He nodded to Triss, who smiled.

Fiona approached him nervously, wringing her hands. “King Alistair – Your Majesty, I assure you, we never intended –”

King Alistair held up his hand. “Trust me, Grand Enchanter, I heard the tale. A Tevinter cult and unstable time magic? I understand where the blame lies. But Arl Teagan will no longer allow the mages sanctuary in Redcliffe, and after what happened here, I can’t afford to alienate my nobles by asking them to host your mages, either.” He sighed. “I’m sorry. But your rebellion is no longer welcome in Ferelden.”

Fiona flinched. “Where will we go? We have hundreds who need protection!”

“You don’t remember it, but you offered the Inquisition an alliance when we met in Val Royeaux,” Ciri said, pushing down her roiling emotions and stepping forward. “We came here to deal with the Venatori and secure that alliance. We’ve done one of those things. With your agreement, Grand Enchanter, we can do the other.”

“A true alliance? Will the Inquisition honor such terms?” Fiona asked. She looked from Ciri to Cassandra.

“We will,” Cassandra told her. “This is the Hand’s decision, as we agreed before coming.”

“Then my people will be proud to join you.” Fiona held out her hand, and Ciri shook it firmly.

As Ciri and Fiona spoke, recognition filled King Alistair’s eyes, and he began to smile. There was something impish to the expression, and when he spoke, she mentally swore at Maxwell once again.

“So you’re the Hand of the Maker I’ve heard so much about,” he said. “And also my long-lost sister, if what my courtiers tell me is true.”

Fiona shot her a sharp look.

“It’s not,” Ciri said hastily. “Your Majesty.”

“That’s a shame,” he said. “I always wanted a sister. No plans to steal Ferelden’s throne out from under me, then? No deeply-held desires to rule a kingdom of your own?”

“That is quite possibly the last thing I’d ever want,” Ciri said. Cintra was lost to her thanks to the false Cirilla, and Nilfgaard remained a place of dread for her, filled with men and women who’d haunted her nightmares and stalked her movements for years.

“The Hand is a humble woman of strong convictions,” Leliana interjected as she walked out of the shadows. Her face was unscarred, her eyes unclouded by the long year of suffering she’d faced in the future.

King Alistair looked delighted to see her. “Leliana! You haven’t aged a day.”

Leliana laughed. “Flatterer. I see you’ve learned to speak to women, finally.”

Ciri watched as a transformation seemed to come over the Inquisition’s spymaster. She spoke to the king with genuine warmth, a small but honest smile on her face. _This can’t possibly be the sharp-eyed woman who unnerved me so at the first meeting_.

“Forgive me for interrupting your reunion, Your Majesty, but I’m afraid it’s not over.” Ciri glanced at Dorian, who seemed to be doing his best to remain unnoticed. “The magister used his time magic to send me into the future.” The images rose up before her eyes again, gruesome and intrusive. “The people there had much to say, and one of them shared information you should know.”

King Alistair gave her his full attention. “Go on, Lady Cirilla.”

“I was told that you and your soldiers died just outside Redcliffe Castle to Venatori forces in that future,” Ciri said. “It hasn’t been long enough for them to flee the village or the castle. They’re likely still here.”

“I died? I _will_ die? Maker, what a headache.” King Alistair grimaced. “Thank you for the information. I’ll take the men out and scour the village and the surrounding area.”

“Perhaps our people could be of service,” Leliana suggested.

“Not quite like old times,” King Alistair said with a wry smile. “You, me, and twenty of Ferelden’s finest instead of Elissa and her dog.”

Leliana giggled – _giggled_ – and said, “If one of your men sits on another’s shoulders, they might make a good substitute for Sten.”

The king laughed. “It would be very wrong of me to order that. Will you join your scouts, Leliana? And will you come, Lady Cirilla?”

Ciri hesitated. “We can assist you in Redcliffe, but then we must return to Haven, Your Majesty. The things I learned in the future will need to be addressed, and we must prepare to close the Breach.”

“Lady Ciri is right,” Leliana sighed. “A pity. I would have enjoyed the hunt.”

“I’ll want a report on that future, Leliana, if the Inquisition is willing to share,” King Alistair said. “That’s my kingdom at stake, you know. No sneaky bard nonsense from you, old friend.”

Leliana’s smile was perfectly guileless. “The Inquisition is always willing to share with its allies. You’ll have a full report on everything pertaining to Ferelden.”

“That should calm the whining at court.” King Alistair winked at Ciri. “Ferelden nobles are an irritable bunch. They’re never happy unless they have something to fight.”

“Speaking of, shall we go track down these Venatori before they disappear?” Leliana asked.

“We should start with the castle,” King Alistair said. “There are all sorts of hidey-holes they could be tucked away in.” He held out a hand, and one of his soldiers handed him a sword. “Let’s go.”

Fiona stepped forward, determination written across her face. “Allow me to offer my services in this, Your Majesty. These Venatori came here for us. I would help you drive them out.”

“Your assistance is appreciated, Grand Enchanter,” King Alistair said with a nod. He looked to his soldiers and raised his voice. “Men! Move out!”

Ciri found herself falling into step behind the neat rows of marching soldiers, well behind the chatting king and spymaster. Olgierd, Triss, and Cassandra clustered around her, with Dorian and Felix taking up the rear. The two Tevinter mages seemed to be doing their best to remain inconspicuous, not wishing attention to fall on them after Alexius’ actions.

“You saw the future?” Olgierd asked quietly.

Ciri nodded. She forced herself to look at him, to see him clearly. Her mind attempted to superimpose the Olgierd of the future onto her friend, but his easy stride and well-rested face gave clear lie to the vision.

Cassandra frowned. “Was it that bad?”

“Later,” Ciri said. Her throat went tight at the question. “Ask me later.”

A cry went up ahead – one of the Venatori had been discovered. Ciri readied herself for battle. _For Geralt and Lambert. For Varric and Blackwall. For Josephine and Cullen. For Olgierd and the Trevelyans_.

* * *

Later came sooner than she’d have liked. They parted with the king and his men at Redcliffe’s gates, having scoured the castle and the village clean of any remaining Venatori presence. Varric, Blackwall, and Solas had joined them in the hunt through the village, not objecting when Ciri led them down to the docks for a quiet word with the elven widower after the fighting ended. Felix left them at the gates as well, preparing to make his way back to Tevinter alone.

Ciri and her companions – including Dorian – rode ahead, leaving the winding caravan of enchanters, mages, and apprentices to make their own, slower journey to the small village in the mountains. Leliana joined them as they rode. Ciri’s poor mood set the tone for the ride. There was little conversation to be had, all of it faltering and hesitant. Ciri’s skin itched and her shoulder blades drew together as she felt their eyes on her, but no one dared to breach the topic of the future.

Not, at least, until they’d stopped for the night. Once the tents were pitched and the picket line was secured, Leliana turned from lighting the campfire to direct a look of sharp intent at Ciri.

“You have been unsettled since you returned from the future,” she stated. “We will discuss it in the War Room, of course, but if there’s anything you would like to speak of now –”

“ _No_ ,” Ciri said vehemently.

Cassandra and Olgierd exchanged a look that made her stomach knot. All around her, they stood and watched, waiting patiently while her emotions boiled beneath the surface. Their eyes held curiosity, sympathy, even dread – and it was too much to bear. She wasn’t sure what she felt. Relief, certainly, and a great deal of anger. Her heart had broken, and then abruptly the cause had been undone.

But that hadn’t taken the pain away.

“Something happened to me in that future,” Olgierd said. “You’d not have looked at me that way when you reappeared otherwise.”

Ciri looked away immediately.

“It is best to share your burdens with friends, _da’len_ ,” Solas advised. “Do not try to carry on under the weight of your secrets alone.”

She almost laughed at the absurdity. In the future, he all but begged her to keep her secrets. Now he advised her to share them. As much as she liked him, she suspected he was a bit of a hypocrite.

Triss reached out, face kind and concerned. “Please, Ciri. Let us help.”

“ _Geralt died_!”

Triss took a step back at the shout that tore from Ciri’s throat. Ciri clenched her fists, shaking, unable to meet anyone’s eyes for long.

“You went home for help, and they came. Geralt died right in front of my eyes. The magister’s men crippled Olgierd, tortured Leliana – I saw Olgierd die right as I came back through the portal.” To Lambert, ensorcelled by blood magic.

“The Inquisition fell. Orlais and Ferelden fell. The _Veil_ fell. The Qun invaded the north. Varric and Blackwall were dead before I arrived. Keira and Lambert had been captured by the Elder One’s army. Everyone was _dead_ and it was all because I was _gone_ –”

She stalked away from the fire, away from her caring, prying friends. She could faintly hear Dorian speak as the gloom of night swallowed her, but her heart pounded in her ears so loudly she couldn’t make out his words.

The stars above shone bright and cold, and she stared upwards, wondering what it was that Olgierd found so captivating about them. She tried to take deep, even breaths, but the iron band around her ribs made it impossible. Her stomach knotted as ghastly visions of that final fight in the future played out before her eyes once more, marring the beauty of the night sky.

“ _You’ll come get us if you need help_.”

“No,” she whispered. “Never.”

This was twice now she’d seen Geralt dead. He’d recovered from the first, and the second time had been undone. But she’d not stand to see it happen a third time.

“The Veil was gone in the future?”

She turned to see Solas and Olgierd standing a short distance behind her. Solas had asked the question. He seemed quite intent on her answer.

“I didn’t see it,” she said shortly. “We were only ever inside the castle. But you called it an abomination.”

He cocked his head at her in curiosity. “I said that?”

“You wanted me to tell you, specifically, that you’d seen what the world was like without the Veil, and that it was a waking nightmare.”

She couldn’t see his face in the darkness, and the tone of his voice was unreadable as he said, “I see. Thank you, _da’len_.”

Guilt tinged her relief at hearing him call her _da’len_ again. She’d been confused at first by his scorn for the Dalish, but after seeing how he’d reacted in the future, she thought she understood. While the advisors of the Inquisition had spread the rumor of Ciri’s Elvhen ancestry far and wide, she suspected Solas was truly a recent descendant of the Elvhen. It would explain why her magic felt familiar to him, why he knew so much about the ancient elves of Thedas. He was lonely and thought he'd found kin where he'd least expected to.

 _I will lie to you, just as you wished. But please don’t hate me should the truth come out_.

“Ciri, look at me,” Olgierd said.

She did so reluctantly and found her friend standing easily on both feet, alive and well. She swallowed hard against a lump in her throat, her eyes stinging painfully.

“What happened in the future was no fault of yours. The deaths are on the magister’s head if we’re to blame anyone – him and this Elder One.”

“That’s not true,” she argued. “I should have been there – I could have stopped all of it from happening!”

“What did I tell you before?” he said, shaking his head. “For all your gifts, you’re no god. You must accept it.”

Solas seemed to stiffen for a moment, then he said, “If you’d stayed in the present, we’d have never learned of what was to come. Perhaps you could have stopped it all from occurring. It’s more likely that you would have been imprisoned or killed with Cassandra and Olgierd.”

“So you’re saying this was the best possible outcome?” she asked bitterly. “Seeing my father and Olgierd dead, seeing Lambert broken by blood magic, was better than staying behind to fight?”

Solas drew closer. “As painful as it is to accept, yes. It was. But take heart. We know what we face now. Together, we can stop this Elder One from enacting his plans.”

She tried to make out his face in the dark, but all she could see were his shining eyes. “Together?” she echoed, suddenly very tired. Her head hurt from the tumult of emotions lashing through her.

“I could not abandon you now,” Solas said. “And this Elder One sounds as dangerous as the Breach.”

“You already have my sword for as long as you wish it," Olgierd said. "The Elder One and his plan change nothing about that."

She remembered the Olgierd of the future, tired and crippled but sincere in his declaration that the Thedosians were his people, and she shook her head. “You should wish for more than that,” she said softly. “In the future, you told me to tell you to try for happiness.”

His silence spoke volumes. Finally, he sighed and said, "You ask much of me, Ciri, but I'll try."

“Come, _da’len_ ,” Solas said. “You should eat something, and get some sleep. I believe Dorian has satisfied the others’ curiosity for now. No one will bother you if you don’t want them to.”

Supper held no appeal, nor did returning to the fire and the scrutiny of her watchful companions. Sleep, however, did sound like a good idea. She walked back toward the camp on reluctant feet, her steps slow and dragging.

Olgierd slung an arm around her shoulders and gave her a quick squeeze. “No one thinks less of you for needing a moment to yourself.”

“You died for me in that future,” she told him, her voice quiet.

“And I’d do it in this life as well.”

Ciri stopped, forcing Olgierd to come to a halt as well. Solas turned to watch as Ciri cried out in frustration and anguish. “But _why_? I don’t want people dying for me!”

“How is it you haven’t learned this yet?” Olgierd asked her. “A friend worth dying for – a cause that’s worth your life – is something to cherish. You’re a dear friend, Ciri. You say I wished to be happy in that dark future? You’re part of my happiness, and I’d give my life to protect that.”

To her eternal mortification, she felt tears fill her eyes, and she dashed them away with the back of her hand. "You're terrible," she muttered and instantly wished she could take back the offhand words she so freely used with Eskel and Lambert. But Olgierd just chuckled.

“Diabolical. Bred in the bone, I’m afraid. Come now, dear. Back to camp.”

She followed Solas and Olgierd back toward the fire, her face warm with embarrassment from her outburst of emotion. To her relief, the reactions to their return were subdued. She was greeted with small smiles and nods, and nothing more.

Ciri took a seat at the fire between Olgierd and Solas, fighting the urge to yawn. Triss came over with a bowl of stew and pressed it into her hands, a question in her cornflower blue eyes.

“I’ll be fine, Triss,” she said quietly. “Thank you.”

“Dorian explained everything,” Triss said. “If you need to talk, I’m here.”

“Thank you,” Ciri said again.

Triss smiled and retook her seat on the other side of the fire beside Varric. Ciri picked listlessly at her supper, the low hum of conversation around her a gentle lull to her senses as exhaustion nibbled at her mind. Finally, she set the half-finished bowl at her feet and slumped against Olgierd, eyes drooping shut.

“Do you need help moving the Hand to her tent?” Dimly, she recognized Cassandra’s voice.

A large hand, rough with calluses, smoothed back her hair gently. “Nay, Seeker. She’s fine where she is.”

As she drifted deeper into sleep, she thought she heard a voice softly singing. It carried her down, away from the hazards and tumult of the day.

“I will go up a steep mountain.  
I will sing the song that is quiet,  
That is quiet, that is quiet.  
I will sing the song that is quiet,  
That is quiet, that is quiet.  
I will sing the song that is quiet.

“And the sun rises very early.  
Our mother woke us up early,  
Woke us up early, woke us up early.  
Our mother woke us up early,  
Woke us up early, woke us up early.  
Our mother woke us up early.

“And these are your children, so look after them.  
You begot these children, so look after them,  
So look after them, so look after them.  
You begot these children, so look after them,  
So look after them, so look after them.  
You begot these children, so look after them.

“I will go up a steep mountain.  
I will sing the song that is quiet,  
That is quiet, that is quiet.”

* * *

Ciri left the War Room meeting feeling like a wrung-out dishcloth. For every question Cullen, Cassandra, and Chancellor Roderick had, Josephine had three, and Leliana five. No one, least of all Ciri, had been satisfied by the number of questions she had to answer with “I don’t know.” At least Dorian was able to assure them that with both the amulet and Alexius contained, the time magic couldn’t be replicated by anyone.

Cullen and Cassandra were rightly concerned about the news of the Elder One's use of blood magic and his massive demon army. Leliana seemed more intent on Ciri’s information about the Qun invading the northernmost countries of Southern Thedas. Josephine feared what it would mean for Thedas if Celene’s assassination were successful and Orlais fell. And Chancellor Roderick had seemed to age a decade upon hearing of the deaths of the grand clerics and the fate of Lydes.

She and Dorian left them sorting out scouting missions and supply lines for lyrium, closing the door behind them firmly. She turned to Dorian to see the same weariness that she felt written across his face.

“You plan on staying, then?” she asked.

He gave her a halfhearted smile, then turned serious. “Alexius – my mentor – took a theoretical project meant to explore the wonders of magic and turned it into something hideous. I helped him create it. A part of me feels responsible for what happened to the mage rebellion. And to us.”

“I don’t blame you for that, you know,” Ciri told him. “You came to us with your concerns, stood with us against him. It speaks to your character.”

“Well don’t say that too loudly, or people might get the right idea,” Dorian quipped.

“Would that be so bad?” she asked.

She’d seen the way the locals looked at him with suspicion and disdain. He stood out as badly as she had at Vivienne’s salon. News of the Venatori had already reached Haven’s inhabitants, and Dorian was a convenient target for their misplaced ire. Even Mother Giselle, who’d struck Ciri as a level-headed woman, seemed to view Dorian with distaste.

“No,” he admitted. “These Southerners do seem dreadfully provincial in their attitude toward the unknown. I’ve never been ‘the dread Tevinter magister’ before. I suspect the novelty will wear off quickly.”

“You’re not a magister, though,” Ciri said. She was fairly certain that was the case.

“No, that particular honor falls to my father,” Dorian said. “I’m an altus. The Magisterium is made up of the heads of the original altus families – as well as a few laetan magisters, of course.” He laughed at her apparent confusion. “Not to worry. No one expects Southerners to grasp our politics in the first conversation.”

Ciri frowned. “I should put the effort in if I’m to understand the Venatori and the Elder One.”

“Consider my knowledge at your disposal, my dear lady,” Dorian told her, dipping into a playful bow. He straightened and said more seriously, “I’m sure a great deal was said in the future that I wasn’t present for, but Solas said something that made me wonder.”

Ciri glanced about the chantry. Only a few brothers and sisters occupied the building at present, but there was a scout in the corner standing idly by that made her tense. And they were too close to the War Room door for her comfort.

“Come with me,” she said quietly, leading him off to her room. He followed, his dark eyes alight with curiosity.

Once the door was safely shut behind them, she turned and looked up at her new friend, swallowing down her apprehension. “Go on.”

“He said, ‘the Elvhen are not from _your_ world,’” Dorian said. “Your father and that other warrior had _cat eyes_. And you shouted something about stopping a white frost. You can trust me to keep your secrets, Ciri, but I'd like to know what I've stumbled into."

Ciri studied his face carefully. She'd met him only two and a half weeks ago. She'd spent a total of nine days in his presence. But there was something about him, something sincere beneath the flippant wit, that drew her in. Still, she’d need to proceed carefully.

“What exactly do you think you’ve stumbled into?” she asked.

Dorian looked at her, then down at his hands, fiddling with a fine gold ring. “There’s a treatise from the Glory Age tucked away in the corner of the Vyrantium Circle library where all the crackpot theories get banished. I read it as a boy and laughed over it – thought it absurd. Other worlds? Nonsense! But it’s true, isn’t it? You’re not from here.”

“No,” she admitted. “I’m not.”

“I think I need to sit down,” Dorian said faintly. He dropped onto her bed with none of his usual grace, staring at her with wide eyes.

“There are many worlds,” she said, voice quiet. She glanced at the door, stomach tight with nerves. “Some are so different you’d hardly recognize them. Others are almost like...like visiting a neighbor’s house. My world is like that.”

His poleaxed expression slowly began to fade, and keen interest shone in his eyes. “And how did you come to be here?”

“There are portals scattered across the worlds. Some take you a short distance, while others can carry you to another world instantaneously,” Ciri said. “A talented mage can use them easily. We – _I_ found one while exploring near my parents’ home. A nobleman threw a letter through asking for help when I activated it, and I came to Thedas to see what I could do.”

“‘We?’” Dorian said swiftly. “Wait, don’t tell me. Triss Merigold and von Everec. You’re too close to them for them to be recent acquaintances.”

“You’re right,” she admitted. “Please – don’t judge us for lying. The thought of what the Chantry might do if they knew was enough to keep us silent.”

“No, I’ll keep your secrets,” he said. “And you’re probably right. There’s little Southerners like more than crying ‘heresy’ at the first sign of something new and different. But how did a letter from a nobleman see you turned into the ‘Hand of the Maker’?”

“The nobleman needed someone to bodyguard their children for the journey to the Conclave, and we were curious. I certainly had no intention of ending up with this mark, or being proclaimed as the Maker’s Hand,” Ciri said.

“I should hope not!” Dorian said. He gave her a sharp look. “This portal, it opened in the Trevelyan estate, I take it?”

He was even cleverer than she’d thought. “Don’t tell anyone,” she ordered him.

“My lips are sealed.” Dorian shook his head in disbelief. “It’s almost impossible to believe, you know. But your father’s eyes, and Solas’ words… I thought myself rather cosmopolitan. Now I learn I’ve been occupying one small patch of one world. You must find us all as rustic as I find Fereldens.”

“Not at all,” she assured him. “The people here are much the same as the people back home. The good and the bad are remarkably similar. We have the Empire of Nilfgaard, you have the Orlesian Empire and the Tevinter Imperium. We have Temeria, you have Ferelden. We have the Church of the Eternal Fire, you have the Chantry. We have Witchers, you have Wardens.”

“And that’s what your father and that other man were?” Dorian asked. “Witchers?”

“Of the School of the Wolf,” Ciri said. “That was Eskel who came with Geralt and Yennefer. Lambert is another Witcher. He’s the one who –” She faltered. “Anyway. They trained me, as did Vesemir and Coën. I’m a Witcher as well, though I’ve not undergone the mutations.”

“Fascinating,” Dorian breathed. “And what do Witchers do, exactly?”

She looked at his shining eyes and judged he’d prefer the more romantic version of the facts. “We’re from an ancient order of monster hunters, trained to protect civilization from otherworldly threats. Rumor and superstition tend to malign our work. We’re often shunned, but we’re needed. Monsters would have overrun the Continent without Witchers to hold back the tide in the early days.”

“Monsters? Are they anything like demons?”

“No, we have those, too,” Ciri said. “In fact, I’ve been rather curious about Thedas’ lack of monsters given some of your animals’ names. It’s on my list of things to look into.”

“And you believe Grey Wardens are like your Witcher school?” he asked. Something about the comparison didn’t seem to sit well with him.

She nodded. "The Grey Wardens seem to be heroic on a larger scale. Witchers are usually content to save a village or a single person. We're not like the Wardens, turning back the Blight and saving Thedas from devastation every few Ages. But I admire them. They’re the closest thing Thedas has to Witchers. They walk away from their old lives and dedicate themselves to fighting the darkness. It’s not an easy thing to do.”

"I hadn't given it much thought, to be honest," Dorian admitted. "Still, this must be something of a shock for you, if Witchers don't get involved in politics. You're neck-deep in all of Thedas' problems – they've practically deified you!"

“Actually –” She hesitated, about to peel back another layer of secrets. “It’s common knowledge to the Inquisition’s leadership that I was adopted as a child. My grandparents raised me for most of my childhood. They –”

She broke off at a knock. “Ciri?” Owain called through the door. “It’s us. We heard you had a rough go of it.”

“Another time,” she said to Dorian and opened the door to let the Trevelyan siblings in.

Evelyn pounced on her the moment she came through the door, wrapping her in a tight hug. “You did it!” she said fervently. “You brought the mages to the Inquisition!”

“Almost,” Ciri said as Evelyn drew back. “They’ll arrive in a few days. They’re not fully joining the Inquisition. They’re staying separate, as allies.”

“And what’s next for you?” Owain asked.

Ciri smiled up at him. “It will take a while for the Inquisition to pull together enough lyrium in order for the mages to help close the Breach. We’re off to the Storm Coast to recruit the Iron Bull and his mercenary company next.”

Owain frowned. “Scouts reported that there have been skirmishes with another mercenary company in that area. Stay safe.”

“I always do.”

“Won’t you introduce me to your friends, Ciri?” Dorian prompted her.

“Yes, of course. Dorian Pavus, these are the Trevelyan siblings I was telling you about. Knight-Lieutenant Owain –”

“Former Knight-Lieutenant,” Owain interrupted. “Pleasure to meet you.”

“Lady Evelyn, formerly of the Ostwick Circle of Magi –”

“A pleasure, ser,” Evelyn said, curtseying shallowly.

"Max!" Maxwell said abruptly. "Maxwell. Is my name." He turned red but stuck his hand out for Dorian to shake.

Dorian looked delighted. “Charmed to meet all of you. May I call you Max? Or is it Maxwell?”

Maxwell shot a sideways glare at Evelyn as she started to giggle. “Never mind my imp of a sister. _You_ may call me Max. Have you been given the tour yet? I’m afraid it’s short and disappointing, but good company can liven it up.”

“And you do strike me as good company. By all means, lead the way...Max.”

The two were out the door in moments, leaving Maxwell’s siblings laughing in their wake.

“You know, I already gave Dorian a tour of Haven,” Ciri said as the door shut behind them.

“Doesn’t matter, apparently,” Owain said, chuckling to himself. “Oh, Maker. I haven’t seen him so off-balance in years. Not since he came home from Starkhaven and met Raúl.”

“Is that – do people not care, here in Thedas?” Ciri asked carefully.

Evelyn shrugged expressively. “If Maxwell were the heir, he’d be expected to marry and have children, and to keep lovers of any sex quietly on the side. But he’s the youngest, so no one really cares, truly. Not in Ostwick, anyway.”

If all of Thedas shared Ostwick’s opinion, then that made this world better than her own in at least one respect.

Owain looked her over, his smile slowly fading. “What happened in Redcliffe? You look weary.”

“Might we discuss it later?” she asked, wincing at the plaintive note in her voice. “I just finished speaking with the advisors about it, and I’ve no desire to revisit what happened.”

“Of course,” Evelyn assured her.

“I just –” She reached out and grabbed Owain’s hand, large and strong and reassuringly warm with life. “I’m so glad to see you alive.”

And this time, they’d stay that way.


	24. Preparations and Spies

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Olgierd assists in getting Haven ready for the incoming rebel mages and tries to follow his future self's advice. Ciri meets the biggest Qunari she's ever seen and deals with a strange band of religious mercenaries.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> beta-read by brightspot149. Thank you!

“Perhaps settling them here, along the bank,” Evelyn suggested, her slender finger tapping the map of Haven laid out on the table.

Olgierd thought it was the best suggestion for where to house the rebel mages so far, but he could see the protest forming on Rutherford’s lips before it came.

“It will spill over into the training field,” the commander disagreed. “Where will the troops drill?”

“We’ve not the time to fell the trees beyond the gates,” Olgierd pointed out. “Lady Evelyn’s suggestion is sound.”

Olgierd and Triss had farewelled Ciri just this morning as she left for the Storm Coast with an unusual assortment of people. She’d taken Blackwall, the self-loathing Grey Warden, and Solas, the enigmatic elf from nowhere in particular. Dorian Pavus and Sera had gladly attached themselves to her company as well.

After seeing how badly the future had shaken Ciri, Olgierd had been reluctant to stay behind. She had rallied admirably, however, taking her anger and grief and turning it into crystalline determination to set things right. By the time they set off this morning, she was even laughing again.

Josephine, Cassandra, and Vivienne had coaxed Olgierd into helping prepare to receive the hundreds of mages set to arrive two days hence. There was a dearth of Harrowed mages in the Inquisition’s ranks, and his close friendship with ‘the Hand of the Maker’ made him better suited than most in their eyes. And Triss wouldn’t allow them to leave her out of it. So here they were, gathered in the spymaster’s tent to make plans – Vivienne, Evelyn, Letia, Triss, and Olgierd, with Rutherford, Cassandra, Owain, Raúl, Rona, Lady Josephine, and Maxwell. The Templar from his Harrowing, Rylen, had been present for a time but left looking pale and pained.

They’d been at this for three hours, since just past Ciri’s departure. Every little detail needed to be hammered out in advance, and there was scant time to do so. Barracks, provisions, duties, lyrium – Olgierd had found himself drawing on old lessons of estate management as he’d offered what little advice he could. Triss was far better suited than he was at this, though she couched every excellent idea as a question in keeping with her story of being an apprentice turned apostate.

Cassandra leaned across the table, and Olgierd turned his attention back to the conversation at hand.

“The tents are only a temporary measure,” Cassandra assured Rutherford. “We will have more permanent buildings erected to house our people and theirs in a matter of weeks.”

“We should consider a new site for the Inquisition,” Maxwell said. “The rebel mages are going to strain our resources, and we’re too isolated from roads and trade routes.”

“That will take time that we don’t currently have,” Josephine told him, “though you’re right, of course. We’ll need to consider it after the Breach is closed. I’ll have to reach out to the Chantry, see what favors they’ll do for us to smooth our path to a new headquarters.”

She looked mildly displeased by the thought. Interestingly, Cassandra and Cullen didn’t seem too eager to tie themselves closer to the Chantry, either.

 _Perhaps their interference with the mages here cost them some goodwill_ , he mused. For his part, his resentment over being backed into a corner over the Harrowing had faded some, though his memories of the event itself lingered like a bruise.

“Speaking of the Chantry, are you sure it’s a good idea to ask them for lyrium?” Triss asked. “They’ll probably turn us down, given the amount we’re requesting.”

“The Chantry will be hesitant, no doubt. So much lyrium in the hands of mages will worry them,” Rutherford said. “But they must be made to see the necessity. While the Breach remains, we’re all in danger.”

“And what if they use that hesitation to wring concessions from the Inquisition?” Evelyn shook her head. “We should explore other options.”

“The Dwarven Merchants’ Guild would be expensive, but they won’t moralize while they sell to you, and the lyrium won’t come with strings attached,” Raúl said.

“It won’t please the Chantry if we use the coffers they have filled to purchase lyrium from another source, but you have a point,” Josephine said. “I’ll write some letters and see if I can move things along. As it is, it will be a month at the earliest for so much lyrium to be shipped here.”

Owain raised a hand to quell the discontent that arose at Josephine’s words. “Getting the lyrium here any faster won’t do any good with Ciri away. Two weeks to the Storm Coast, a week there, two weeks back. A month is faster than we need.”

“Thank you, Knight-Lieutenant,” Rutherford said. “And I’m sure we’ll find plenty to do in the coming month.”

“ _Former_ Knight-Lieutenant,” Owain corrected him.

Rona muttered something uncomplimentary under her breath, eyeing Rutherford balefully.

“Are any of us truly _formerly_ of our Circles, Ser Owain?" Vivienne asked, directly contradicting what she had told Olgierd just a week and a half before. “They will stand again, and I doubt a man of character such as yourself will allow them to be guarded by men and women of ill intent. I pray you have the decency to return to your post.”

Letia laughed. “Maker’s tears, Vivienne. The Circles are dead. The Inquisition granted the rebellion legitimacy by allying with Fiona. What was the Chantry’s response, Lady Montilyet?”

"A letter of stiff disapproval from Grand Cleric Oudine, and the grand cleric of Val Chevin broke from the Chantry to join Agnesot's faction. They’re also sending an emissary to ‘maintain closer ties.’"

“A letter and a lackey,” Letia said with satisfaction. “That’s all they can afford to do.”

“Not quite,” Cassandra cautioned her. “If the Lady Hand continues this path, we may lose their support entirely.”

“They’ve done little for us so far as I’ve seen,” Olgierd said, and he wondered when exactly the Inquisition had become an ‘us.’ “They’ve helped us not a bit with the nobles in Orlais, and the last time Ciri did something they disliked, they made demands of us as recompense.”

Rutherford nodded, taking Olgierd’s point. “It’s less what they can do for us, and more the legitimacy they lend us. We’re a young organization. The Chantry’s approval goes a long way to smoothing our path.”

Josephine looked approvingly at Rutherford. “Precisely. And with the Circles and the Templars gone, the Chantry looks to us to fill the gap. There is a mutual need. It’s not so dire as you believe, Cassandra. The Chantry will adapt, or it will fall.”

“It will fall,” Raúl predicted. “These grand clerics jump ship at every inconvenient decision. Stubborn _sciocche_ , all of them.”

Josephine pressed her lips together to hide a smile. “Your optimistic assessment of the situation is appreciated, Ser Raúl.”

“Shall we take a break?” Evelyn suggested. “I think we’re due for lunch.”

“Maker’s breath, yes,” Rutherford agreed. He stood abruptly. “I’ll be in the tavern if I’m needed early.”

That seemed to be the signal for everyone to stand and disperse. Olgierd had only just begun to walk away when a smooth, slender hand caught his wrist in a firm grip. He turned to see Vivienne standing just behind him, an expectant look on her face.

“We never spoke of my offer for you to join the Monstimmard Circle,” she said. “When the rebel mages arrive and the Inquisition forms its delegation to welcome them, what shall they call you?”

“Your offer is appreciated, First Enchanter,” he said. He expected she had half a dozen reasons for offering, and at least four of them were in good faith. “But I’ve lived my entire life a free man. I’ve courted, married, and widowed. I’ve ridden a horse the length and breadth of my homeland with nothing and no one to stop me. I’ve buried all my family, I’ve had and lost and regained a fortune, I’ve caroused in taverns and made friends and enemies of scholars and blackguards alike. I doubt the Circles will come back, but assuming you’re right – assuming you’re right, I’d go mad inside one within a fortnight.

"Let them call me a mage of the Inquisition if they must. Properly Harrowed and acceptable by Chantry law. But I'll not be a Circle mage," he said. "I’ll gladly call you my colleague, if I may.”

Her cool brown eyes softened slightly at his response. “That’s a shame, but I must admit I wasn’t truly expecting otherwise. Allow me to extend my best wishes to my newest colleague, then. Should you need anything, I’m always available.”

She patted his arm and walked past him out of the tent. He heard a soft laugh behind him and Josephine came to his side, the scent of her perfume teasing his nose.

“It seems Enchanter Vivienne has taken a shine to you, Messere Olgierd,” she said. “She does not bestow her favor lightly.”

“A formidable woman, that one,” he said, nodding. “I’d rather not stand against her if I can help it.”

“A sentiment most would agree with,” Josephine agreed.

He looked down on her lovely face and his heart twisted again. He’d not been blind to her beauty, not from the moment he’d been introduced. She had a lively intelligence and a kind heart, an idealism that should have been worn away by the harsh realities of life. The warmth he felt in Josephine’s presence was a familiar one, and he half damned himself for it. He’d told Ciri he’d not cause heartbreak to another undeserving woman. Yet here he was, making soft eyes at a gentle lady.

“Shall we go to the tavern together, Messere Olgierd?” she asked.

He held out his arm for her with a silent curse at his own weakness, and she delicately placed her fingers on his forearm. “But of course. Fancy a wager on the meal? Five coppers says it’s mutton stew again.”

She smiled a secretive smile at him. “Messere, has no one ever warned you about gambling with an Antivan?”

He chuckled. “If it’s anything like gambling with my family, purses will be emptied, favors will be owed, and someone’s trousers will be –” He stopped abruptly as Josephine blushed. “My apologies.”

“No, it’s quite all right,” she demurred. She darted a glance up at him as they walked, and he was relieved to see laughter in her eyes. “That is exactly how it goes.”

“My thanks,” he said quietly. “For your favor. That was kind of you.”

Her hand tightened on his arm for a moment. “I’m relieved you came through,” she said, her voice equally soft. Her eyes met his again, and she looked away with another blush. “But perhaps this is not the time to speak of such things.”

He thought of the dried rose carefully put away in his saddlebags, of the silk handkerchief folded and tucked up his sleeve, and smiled ruefully at her. “Perhaps not.”

 _Try for happiness. Damn it all, Ciri._ He’d sworn to leave his past behind. But he’d not court a woman who didn’t know the truth of him.

_Oh, Iris. Forgive me. But I must live in this world without you._

* * *

The air shifted mere hours from the Storm Coast. Where before it had been rich with the smell of earth and trees, it now carried the briny scent of saltwater and seaweed. Ciri took in deep lungfuls with her eyes closed, smiling to herself. Skellige smelled much the same on its coasts, and many of her fondest memories came from her childhood summers and winters there.

She heard a sigh of satisfaction beside her and opened her eyes to see Blackwall taking a deep breath as well. "Ah, cold salt air."

“There’s nothing like it, is there?” she said.

“Been a long time since I was on the coast,” he said. “I always liked the sea.”

“Give me a city any day,” Dorian interjected. “Preferably one with a sewer system.”

Blackwall scoffed. “Dandy.”

“Someone has to class up this ragged bunch of miscreants – do any of you know how to use soap?” Dorian asked.

“Soap...soap...” Sera said slowly. “That’s, er. The sudsy stuff, yeah?”

Dorian tutted playfully, and she snickered.

Traveling with the three of them and Solas had been marvelously entertaining, though she missed having Olgierd and Triss along. For the first few days, she'd felt adrift without the people who shared her ties to the Continent. But Cassandra, Josephine, and Vivienne had made a compelling argument for Olgierd to stay behind, and Triss wouldn't have missed the arrival of the mages for the world.

She'd feared early on that Blackwall and Dorian would dislike each other, but Dorian had complimented the Grey Wardens using Ciri's words to him from their conversation earlier. After a moment of being quite visibly taken aback, Blackwall had allowed that not all nobles were useless assholes, either. Ever since they'd seemed to argue simply for the fun of it.

Solas had attempted to connect with Sera over their shared heritage, but she rebuffed him at every turn, drawing closer to Blackwall instead. Her tutor took pains not to let on how it frustrated him, but every day that was met with rebuttal ended with a lengthy lesson in magic for Ciri. She now had a half dozen useful spells under her belt, all ones that she could incorporate almost seamlessly into her swordplay. She still had trouble regulating the strength behind them, but Solas assured her it would come in time. He’d also taught her a few useful words and phrases in his language, and she’d finally learned the meaning of what he’d been calling her since Val Royeaux.

“Shall we ride on?” Solas asked. “The scouts at the camp will be able to direct us to the Iron Bull and his mercenary company.”

Ciri nodded. “I hope they still wish to be hired. We did take much longer than anticipated to meet them.”

“It’s their loss if their commander changes his mind,” Blackwall said. “Still, it’s worth trying, at least.”

Ciri took another breath of the clean sea air and nudged Zephyr down the path. Her companions fell in behind her, Sera chattering freely about some escapade from her time as a Jenny. Her voice rose to a loud, excited pitch as she reached the high point of her story.

“An’ the stupid nob was runnin’ about for ages, screechin’ about ghosts in his cellar,” she cackled. “You shoulda seen it, Beardy!”

Blackwall guffawed. “Good on you, girl. Orlesian nobles could all stand to be taken down a peg or four.”

Dorian chuckled appreciatively. "Very clever. That reminds me of the time Felix and I convinced Magister Origanus that his decanter had been used to bind a demon and that he was imbibing little bits of it with every drink. Andraste's ashes, the face he made! I thought he was going to cry!"

Ciri looked to Solas. He seemed slightly bothered by Dorian’s anecdote. She shrugged and smiled at him, and he shook his head and smiled back.

"Naturally, the only thing to do in those cases is an ancient elven ritual to appease the angered spirit," Solas said dryly. "Such rituals are best performed nude under moonlight if circumstances allow, of course."

“How did you know?” Dorian asked, looking delighted. “That’s exactly what we talked the drunken old goat into doing.”

“I had a feeling that’s where this was going.”

The remainder of the ride passed quickly as they all attempted to outdo each other with tales of their own cleverness in outfoxing deserving victims. Blackwall and Solas were cagier, but even their vague stories had Ciri and Sera giggling so hard they could barely keep their seats in their saddles. Even the sudden change in the weather couldn’t put a dent in Ciri’s good mood. They rode into the camp damp and smiling amidst a heavy gray drizzle.

“Your Worship,” Scout Harding greeted Ciri as she dismounted from Zephyr. “It’s good you’ve come. We have some problems out here. Iron Bull and his Chargers have been helpful, but they can’t be everywhere at once.”

Behind Scout Harding, a boulder moved. Ciri did a double-take. The boulder was, without a doubt, the largest Vashoth she'd seen yet. He had massive horns and old scars and injuries across his gray skin that looked like he'd wrestled a griffon and won. The Iron Bull – for it could only be he – strode over and stuck out an enormous hand for her to shake.

“So. You’re the ‘Hand of the Maker,’” he said. “Nice to finally meet you. You missed the show we had planned with the ‘Vints, but at least your scouts appreciated it.”

“It couldn’t be helped,” Ciri said. “Things became...complicated.”

“Yeah, mages tend to do that.” His lone eye roved over her companions and he added, “Especially ‘Vint mages.”

Dorian bristled, and Ciri sighed internally. Fantastic, she hadn’t even hired him yet and already there were personality clashes.

“Perhaps you hadn’t heard that I’m a mage as well,” she said as a gentle warning.

He was unfazed. “I heard. I also heard you prefer to fight with a sword. But that’s beside the point. Come on. We should talk privately.”

“You’ll have to wait,” Ciri said. “The horses need seeing to, and I need to get a report from the scouts on the area.”

“We can take care of the horses, Your Worship," Scout Harding offered. "And there's nothing that needs your attention in the next few minutes if you want to speak with Iron Bull now."

“Very well.” A familiar scout came forward to take Zephyr’s reins, and Ciri smiled. “Scout Ritts, how are you?”

“Better now that you’ve made it out here, Your Worship,” Ritts replied. She seemed stressed, but the heartbreak that had darkened her eyes in the Hinterlands had faded. “We’ve had a rough go of it.”

“We’ll see what we can do to help,” Ciri promised.

Ritts gave her a sharp nod. “I believe you.”

Ciri followed the Iron Bull away from camp, up a sloping cliff covered in wet grass. He stopped at the edge by an ocularum, its glittering gemstone eye dull in the hazy gray light.

“Your people speak highly of you,” the Iron Bull said.

“The Inquisition’s scouts are good people,” she said. She had to crane her neck to look up at him. “The Hinterlands would still be a disaster without their work.”

“An organization as big as the Inquisition, most people at the top don’t know the people at the bottom,” he said. “You know your scouts’ names. They take pride in that.”

“They’re the ones to take pride in,” she told him. “You wished to talk?”

“Yeah.” He paused. “Look, I’m gonna level with you. If you’d showed up for the fight with the ‘Vints, I’d have used that as a way to advertise the Chargers’ skill, use that as my in to the Inquisition. As it is, we’ve been keeping this other merc band off your scouts’ backs for the past month. Ask them about it if you need confirmation.”

“I will,” Ciri said. She looked up at him curiously. “I don’t imagine most mercenaries would have stayed a month past a meeting point just for a chance to be hired.”

“No,” the Iron Bull said slowly, “and this is where I level with you. Ever hear of the Ben-Hassrath?”

She hadn’t, but reasoning and intuition brought the answer to her swiftly. “I assume it’s a Qunari organization,” she said. “Likely a secretive one, if you didn’t expect me to know of it.”

He nodded approvingly. “They’re spies. Or, well – _we’re_ spies.”

She stiffened.

The Iron Bull kept his posture loose and nonthreatening as he continued. “The Ben-Hassrath are concerned about the Breach. Magic like that could cause trouble everywhere. I’ve been ordered to join your organization, get close to the people in charge, and send reports on what’s happening. But I also get reports from agents all over Orlais. You sign me on, and I’ll share them with your people.”

Ciri’s hand twitched around a phantom sword hilt. She had no doubt his eye spotted the movement. “Why even admit it?” she asked. She’d done a fair job putting the dark future from her mind, but his admission brought Leliana’s words to the forefront. The Qun had invaded Antiva and Rivain without the Inquisition to stop them. Had this man been part of that?

“No point hiding something like that from something called the Inquisition,” the Iron Bull said easily. “Look, the Antaam want to know if they need to launch an invasion to stop the whole damn world from falling apart. I’m not too excited about the idea. So whatever I am, I’m on your side.”

“I – one moment,” she said. Her voice came out thin and strained.

The Iron Bull nodded affably, and she stalked a short distance away, keeping him in her line of sight as she stood and thought. Her mind raced, and she cursed under her breath. Why was it that the first time Cassandra stayed behind in Haven, she had to contend with something like this? Cassandra and Cullen would certainly disapprove of inviting a known spy for the Qun into the Inquisition. Leliana and Josephine would likely see the benefits.

And if she turned him down, what then? The Qun wouldn't give up. The next spy would be a merchant or one of Josephine's assistants, and they'd never know.

Perhaps this was part of how she kept the northern countries safe. Perhaps inviting in the spy was the first step in preventing the invasion from the dark future.

She strode back and frowned up at him. “We’ll have a trial run, here on the Storm Coast,” she told him. “You’ll travel with me while we deal with these other mercenaries and with the rifts in the area. If I like what I see, the Chargers are hired.”

He grinned at her. “Sounds fair. I should have mentioned, you aren’t just getting the Chargers. You’re getting me. You need a front-line bodyguard, I’m your man. Demons, dragons – the bigger the better.” He looked thrilled at the prospect.

“We’ve faced plenty of demons, so I expect you’ll get your chance at those,” Ciri said. “But even if I do hire you, you send _nothing_ that Leliana doesn’t approve of. Do you understand? You can’t compromise the Inquisition.”

“Understood,” the Iron Bull said. “I’ll run it all by her. Might piss off my superiors.” He flashed her a grin. “If they knew about it.”

She hesitated. “You said you get reports from spies in Orlais.”

“Yeah, that’s where I usually operate,” the Iron Bull said.

“Have you ever heard of a bard called Papillon?” she asked.

His scarred face contorted in surprise. “Man, you pissed off the wrong person. They’re a veteran bard, we assume female but we don’t know for sure. They only involve themselves in seriously underhanded political games among the Orlesian nobility. No deaths have been directly traced back to them, but wherever rumor of their name pops up, someone’s usually been offed.”

“Great,” Ciri muttered. Leliana probably had the same information and hadn’t seen fit to tell her. “Come on, ‘the Iron Bull.’ Let’s get back to the camp. I want to know more about these mercenaries.”

“You can call me Bull if you want, or Iron Bull,” the Iron Bull said as they began walking. “Most people do.”

“If you like,” she said.

They returned to the camp to find the scouts and her traveling companions still tending to the horses. Ciri jumped to help, lending a hand in picking stones from Sera’s mare’s hooves and brushing down Zephyr. Once they were all seen to and tied to the picket line, Ciri turned to Scout Harding.

“Iron Bull said the Chargers have been helping our scouts deal with another mercenary group. Could you tell me about that?”

“They’ve been lifesavers, Your Worship,” Scout Harding said. “This group calls themselves the Blades of Hessarian. Their leader took offense to your existence, apparently, so they’ve been attacking us whenever they see us. The Chargers have cut down on casualties since they started going on our patrols with us.”

“We lost Erron, Myles, and Lora,” Scout Ritts added. “Bastards.”

Ciri remembered Scout Erron. That was damnable news. “I’m sorry, Ritts.”

“We did find something out when we...found their bodies,” Scout Harding said. “Not everyone in the Blades of Hessarian is happy with their leader. They have this tradition where he can only be challenged by someone wearing something called the ‘Mercy Crest.’ You win, you’re in charge of their group. We made it for you, just in case.”

Harding dug into her belt pouch and fished out a carved, green stone amulet on a dark leather cord. She held it out to Ciri, who took it carefully, holding it up to examine it. The amulet was shaped like a downward-pointed sword backed by flames, and the leather cord had an odd scaly feel to it.

“Scout Tavin carved it,” Scout Harding said. “And you don’t want to know what a pain it was trying to tan deepstalker hide in this weather.”

Scout Ritts snorted. “Not to mention hunting the shits.”

“Thank you both – and thank Scout Tavin when he returns.” She turned to the Iron Bull, rubbing her thumb absently over the amulet. “Why didn’t you challenge their leader?”

“Religious zealots are more the Inquisition’s speed than mine,” he said. He shrugged his massive shoulders. “My guys are eccentric enough without adding a weird offshoot of Andrastianism into the mix.”

“Thoughts, anyone?” she asked her companions.

“Bad leadership doesn’t mean bad men,” Blackwall said gruffly. “You could steer them on a better path, help them find a new direction.”

“A fair point,” Solas said. “Though I doubt the scouts would take kindly to working alongside the people who’ve been trying so diligently to kill them this past month.”

“We won’t argue against it if you do,” Scout Harding said. “More blades for the Inquisition wouldn’t be a bad thing, even if it’s them.”

Ciri tucked her wolf’s head medallion beneath her jerkin and slipped the amulet over her head. “I may as well see what this mercenary leader has to say for himself.”

The Iron Bull cocked his head at her. “Do you usually try diplomacy before you have to get violent?”

It was her turn to shrug. Back on the Continent, she rarely encountered a monster intelligent enough to speak to, and she hardly ever got involved in the affairs of people these days. She found that Thedas required her to reach for a rather rusty set of skills, ones drawn more from the women in her life than the men. “I prefer to.”

He nodded without comment, and she wondered what insight he’d gleaned from her words.

“Where will we find them?” she asked Scout Harding.

Scout Harding pointed north. “Farther down the coast. They have a little fort built at the bottom of a hill. It’s not hard to find.”

She’d worked with vaguer directions. “Was there anything else?”

“Yeah, actually,” Scout Ritts said. She looked at Blackwall. “You’re the Grey Warden, right? We found some stuff here on the coast you might be interested in.”

They waited for a moment while Scout Ritts ducked into a nearby tent. She came back with a bundle of papers and a small metal and leather object, all of which she passed to Blackwall. He took them from her carefully, his eyes widening at the sight of the object.

“Most of those papers are journal entries,” Scout Ritts told him. “Seems some Wardens were looking for someone here on the Storm Coast. Maybe you know who?” Blackwall shook his head, and she continued, “The other papers are a copy of the Grey Warden treaties. Harding thought maybe Lady Montilyet should have a look at that. And that’s a badge of some kind.”

“A Warden-Constable’s badge,” Blackwall told her. “My thanks, Scout Ritts. Ciri, you should take these treaties for the ambassador. I’ll – do you mind if I keep the journal entries?”

“As far as I’m concerned, they belong to your order,” Ciri said. She accepted the topmost parchment from him and gave it a quick glance. The neat letters covered the page in dense legal terms, but she could make out that it was a binding agreement of aid to the Grey Wardens.

She and Blackwall put their new acquisitions away in their saddlebags, and Ciri turned to her companions. “Iron Bull will be joining us today. We make for the mercenaries, and we’ll deal with some rifts while we’re in the area. Any questions?”

“Just like normal, then,” Sera said. “Sounds easy.”

“I have one,” Dorian said, eyeing the Iron Bull skeptically. “Are you a Qunari or Tal-Vashoth?”

“Why?” the Iron Bull asked. “Looking to join up, ‘Vint?”

“Never mind,” Dorian said. “That answers my question. Watch your back, Ciri. You don’t want to know what they do to their mages under the Qun.”

She expected he was right. But it was a conversation for another time. “Come on,” she said. “We have work to do.”

They headed off up the coast, the light rain still pattering down as they left. It made for treacherous terrain, the long grass and the stones slick beneath their feet. Dorian swore in Tevene as his foot slipped on a patch of mud, and Blackwall caught him with a strong hand.

“Easy there.”

Dorian nodded stiffly, the air about him not too dissimilar to that of a cat that had misjudged its leap. Blackwall chuckled.

“You need better boots.”

“I’ll have you know these are the finest money can buy,” Dorian sniffed. “Genuine snoufleur leather, hand-dyed in Antiva.”

“That’s your problem,” Sera said. “Snoufleur’s slippy as anything. Pretty, yeah. Warm, sure. But dead useless when it’s wet out. You need ram or bearskin boots. Or get Harritt to put hobnails in the soles.”

Dorian looked aghast at the thought. “ _Hobnails_? In _my_ boots?”

Sera shrugged and leaped lightly from one wet rock to another. “Or keep slipping. Your choice.”

“Hobnails,” Dorian muttered in disgust.

Ciri laughed. Something about Dorian reminded her of Dandelion, had Dandelion attended Ban Ard Academy instead of Oxenfurt College, perhaps. She doubted he had a woman in every town like her father’s bard friend, though. She’d realized with no small amount of chagrin why she’d taken to Sera so quickly, too. Her wild, manic cheer, long streak of ruthlessness, and colorful tunic and leggings brought to mind her erstwhile companion Iskra from her days in the Rats, and her choppy, straw-colored hair could have been stolen straight off Mistle’s head. She had to wonder what that said about her that she was so fast to befriend a woman who reminded her of one of her lowest points.

Enigmatic, aloof Solas seemed a brother to Avallac’h at times, particularly when he couldn’t curb his condescension. She knew he kept secrets, but she could hardly judge him for that when her own were so great. In truth, she wasn’t sure what to make of him now that she thought she’d ferreted out what he was hiding. His loneliness was far too apparent to her for her to hold him as another Avallac’h.

She'd thought Blackwall would remind her of a Witcher, given his profession, but oddly – oddly he didn't. Instead, she was reminded most keenly of Ves and Vernon Roche, veterans of Temeria’s Special Forces. He seemed to have that steady, straight bearing that a military man ought to possess, but his earthy humor was born straight from a Temerian tavern. She could easily imagine him saying ‘whoreson’ instead of ‘Maker’s balls.’

Dorian slipped again, and Ciri steadied him. “ _Kaffas_ , what I’d give for paved streets.”

“It shouldn’t be far,” she assured him.

To her relief, her words proved true. The fort was less than an hour away by foot. They spotted Inquisition patrols as they walked, and the Iron Bull pointed out his men to Ciri with a note of pride in his voice. She recognized Cremisius Aclassi – ‘Krem’, according to the Iron Bull – and made note of Skinner, Dalish, and Rocky. Twice they were almost intercepted by small bands of men and women the Iron Bull identified as the Blades of Hessarian.

“Mercy Crest, comin’ through!” Sera shouted, and the mercenaries melted back into the sodden landscape.

Finally, the rugged wood walls of the small fort came into view at the base of the hill they stood on. They descended the slippery slope carefully, Dorian swearing under his breath, and rounded the side to find the entrance, guarded by a man and a woman.

The guards tensed, hands drifting to the hilts of their swords, then their eyes alighted on Ciri’s amulet and they both abruptly relaxed.

“You’ve come with a challenge, then,” the man said gruffly.

“I have,” Ciri said, trying to project her grandmother’s unassailable confidence.

It seemed to work. The woman looked at her anxiously. “You should know – all the other challengers died.”

“All the other challengers weren’t me.”

She walked past them into the small compound with her head held high, her companions and the Iron Bull at her back. Beyond the empty stable and the small building stood a blond, bearded mountain of a man, easily the same height as Owain. He wore an ugly scowl on his face as Ciri approached. Nearby on either side, two massive war dogs growled in cages. Ciri made quick eye contact with Blackwall and the Iron Bull, and they nodded.

“So you would challenge the Blades of Hessarian?” the giant of a man demanded. “ _You?_ ”

“First I would know why you’ve killed Inquisition scouts,” Ciri said. “What quarrel do you have with us?”

The man spat at her feet. “You wretch. You worm. You’d unseat Andraste from the Maker’s side and take Her place. We stand against any who’d help you.”

“I’ve _never_ claimed to be holy!” Ciri exclaimed. “All I want is to seal the Breach and kill the man behind it. I’ve no interest in sainthood or the Chantry.”

“That’s not what your Inquisition put about,” the man growled. “I call you liar. Heretic. Thief. You want to challenge me? _Try it_.”

He raised a war axe and charged her with a shout.

Ciri slipped into the ether and came out behind him with _Zireael_ drawn. His cry cut off with a choke as she shoved the blade through his chest. The war dogs howled and thrashed against the doors of their cages as his body slid from her blade and hit the dirt with a heavy thud.

“Would anyone else like to try?” she yelled at the mercenaries standing a short distance away.

It was stupid how quickly he had fallen. She was trained for far worse than him, and he had no tricks up his sleeves as the Templars did. But it was a waste – a pointless, bloody waste. _Just one more reason why fanaticism ruins everything_.

One of the mercenaries broke off and drew nearer, hands conspicuously held away from his weapons. “Well, that was unexpected,” he drawled. “Still, tradition is clear. You lead us now. ‘Lady Hand.’” He spoke her unwanted title with mild distaste.

“And if I don’t want you?” she asked.

The man eyed her dripping sword cautiously. “Then you’ll never see us again.”

“What does this group of yours believe?” Solas asked. “You don’t seem to follow normal Chantry teachings.”

“Our ways are not theirs, but we serve Andraste,” the man said. “And through her, we serve the Maker. We act as her Blade of Mercy, delivering justice to the deserving.”

“The Inquisition’s scouts didn’t deserve that ‘justice,’” Ciri said coldly.

“Perhaps not, but it was as he ordered,” the man said, nodding at the corpse at Ciri’s feet. “We’ll follow you now. Justice is what you make it.”

 _Damn_.

“Fine,” she muttered, then louder, “fine. Your people may stay on the Storm Coast. I expect you to add to the Inquisition’s patrols. Any information you receive or uncover should be sent to the Inquisition promptly.”

“As you say, ‘Lady Hand.’” The man bowed shallowly, a subtly mocking twist to his lips.

“Should I consider you the nominal leader when I’m gone?” she asked.

He glanced behind him at the other mercenaries then looked back at Ciri. "You may as well. I'm Ivor if you need a name to call me."

"Ciri," she said and stuck her hand out for him to shake.

He hesitated, then reached out, grasping it above his former leader’s body. “Ciri. Not to rush you, but I’d like to bury the bastard. He was ours, and a decent man once upon a time.”

Ciri quirked a smile at him. “So kindly get out?”

“Just so, Your Worship.”

She nodded and led her companions back out of the compound, away from the hill and toward the rocky shoreline.

“Not bad,” the Iron Bull said once they’d left the mercenaries behind. “He didn’t know what hit him. So. What’s the verdict?”

“I haven’t even seen you fight yet,” Ciri said. She thought, then nodded to herself. “Shall we get the locations of the rifts from one of the scouts?”

The Iron Bull grinned at her as Sera rubbed her hands together in glee. “Boss, we are gonna have so much fun together.”

She knew then what her decision would be, though she wouldn’t say until she saw him in combat. Worse, she could see it in his face that he knew as well. _Damn it. I hope this is the right choice._


	25. The Breach and Power

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ciri and the mages seal the Breach. She has an unsettling reaction to the magic used. Haven parties.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> beta-read by brightspot149 -- thank you!

Ciri strolled through a lush, sprawling garden at Avallac’h’s side. Graceful willows with silver leaves bent over the path, and strange, small birds flitted through the air like winged jewels. Tall sculptures of armored elves, half again as tall as the tallest Aen Elle, stood every thirty feet or so, somehow both lifelike and stylistic in design.

“And now it all comes together,” Avallac’h said. “Your allies gather. You make ready to close the tear between the worlds.”

Ciri nodded.

“Do you imagine that the man behind it will stay hidden once you undo his work?” he asked.

“No,” she said. “He will make his move, and soon.”

He looked amused. “Do you still believe your theory, _Zireael_? That the one behind the Breach is a descendant of the Elvhen?”

“It made sense,” she said. “But Dorian doesn’t think it’s possible.”

“Almost anything is possible,” Avallac’h said, “but your Mortalitasi friend is correct.”

“You know who it is,” she accused him.

He smiled and changed the subject. “What do you make of your tutor, _Zireael_?”

She hesitated. “He’s what they believe I am. Isn’t he? Recently descended from the ancient Elvhen?”

Avallac’h hummed noncommittally.

“Well, probably,” Ciri said defensively. “And he seems lonely. He tells interesting stories, and he’s good at teaching. He’s standoffish at times, and condescending, but I like him.”

His amusement seemed to deepen. “Your blind spots are fascinating.”

“I don’t – what blind spots?” she demanded.

“You cannot see it, but you will,” he said, still wearing that small, infuriating smile. “Beware your pride, _Zireael._ What you think is true is not always the case.”

That stung. “I’ll not stay to be lectured by a spirit.”

“Just a word of caution,” he said. “You are not the only one among your companions who is prone to pride.”

She stopped beneath one of the statues and grabbed Avallac’h’s sleeve. “I don’t understand.”

He seemed to loom over her, eyes intense. “There are wolves at the door. Open your eyes.”

She blinked, and Lady Yennefer gave her a patient look and nodded to her books and papers spread across the table. She sighed and turned back to her studies. Learning to be an enchantress was far duller than she thought it would be.

* * *

Ciri shivered as she left the chantry. The day had dawned bright and cold, and she rubbed her hands together briskly to ward off the chill as she made her way toward the tavern. It was early yet, but Triss and Solas were sure to be there among the first wave of diners.

She frowned. She’d slept well; her dreams had been pleasant. Yet something nagged at her. There was something there, something she was missing. But the more she prodded at the thought, the further it slipped away.

The tavern was warm and bustling, full of early risers. Eyes went to the door as she entered, and a dozen voices called out greetings. She returned them with a smile and a wave, looking around for familiar faces. She spotted Cullen and Cassandra eating together with some of the Templars at one table, and Chancellor Roderick and Mother Giselle at another table with the new Chantry emissary, Revered Mother Kordula of Nevarra City, and a handful of Chantry sisters and brothers.

She’d met the Revered Mother briefly on her return from the Storm Coast. She was, in a word, sharp: sharp-eyed, sharp-tongued, and sharp-edged, a tall, thin woman with surprisingly lovely honey brown eyes set in a narrow, light brown face. Ciri had ducked her probing questions about the mages and her opinions about politics, and thus far had successfully avoided having to deal with her. Her luck would run out sooner or later, but she appeared safe enough this morning.

Three different tables held mages – one had Vivienne and Letia and a few of the former Witchwood mages, another had Triss and Fiona and some mages from Redcliffe Ciri vaguely recognized, and another held a group of older-looking enchanters who seemed to be on the outs with both of them. Solas and Varric sat at the final table by themselves, talking casually.

Varric greeted her with an easy smile as she sat. “You ready for the big push?”

“Right after breakfast,” she said, raising a hand to get Flissa’s attention. “I wouldn’t want to try to channel that much magic on an empty stomach.”

“No,” Solas agreed. “You should be at your best before attempting to hold and direct so much power. If you feel you aren’t up to it today, tell Cassandra and we’ll put it off. This is too dangerous to leave to chance.”

“I’ll be fine,” she assured him. “We’re as prepared as we can be.”

“The sane part of me is glad I’m staying behind in Haven while you go fight the sky, but I’m a little curious to see how it’s done,” Varric said. “Promise to tell me how it goes?”

“Of course,” she said.

Flissa bustled over with a steaming bowl of porridge and placed it in front of Ciri, beaming proudly. “Morning, Your Worship. We heard today’s the day. Anything you need, just ask. We’re all ready to do our part.”

“And we appreciate all of you,” Ciri told her, drawing on her memories of her grandmother at her most gracious. “The Inquisition wouldn’t function without you and the rest of the workers.”

Flissa blushed. “You’re too kind, Your Worship.”

“Merely honest.”

Another server shouted for Flissa’s help, and she bobbed a curtsy and left them to their breakfast. Ciri turned her attention to the hot porridge and ate a careful spoonful, mindful of the curls of steam coming off it.

 _Delicious_. Flissa had outdone herself. Bits of spiced apple and toasted walnuts gave it a rich flavor, and the hint of cinnamon added warmth and complexity. She ate quickly, ignoring the din around her as more patrons flooded into the tavern.

As her spoon scraped the bottom of the bowl, a large, armored form dropped onto the bench beside her. She looked up to see the Trevelyans and Dorian had joined their table.

“Morning,” Owain greeted her. “Sleep well?”

“Quite.” She looked about the tavern. It was full to bursting. All of Haven seemed to be straining at the seams with the few hundred new arrivals. Something would have to change, and soon.

“Are you coming with us to close the Breach, Solas?” Evelyn asked. “Most of the Harrowed mages will be there, along with the Inquisition’s Templars.”

“I have a far greater depth of experience in matters of the Fade than any Circle mage,” Solas said rather coolly. “My place is with my student.”

Evelyn just smiled. “Your expertise is welcomed, messere.”

“Why are the Templars coming?” Ciri asked.

Owain shrugged. “That many mages, channeling that much magic, directly under a hole into the Fade? Where else would they be? I’ll be there, too, along with Rona and Raúl. They’re pulling in the former Templars. There aren’t enough current Templars to match the number of mages.”

“Cullen was complaining about that,” Ciri said. She made a face and poked her spoon at her mostly-empty bowl. “The mages can handle themselves.” But even as she said it, she couldn’t help but doubt just a little. Her unease over the atrocities the Venatori and Alexius had committed lingered.

“The Harrowed mages, yes, under normal circumstances,” Maxwell said. “Apprentices haven’t proven their ability to resist temptation yet, and there’s an enormous hole into the world of demons a short walk away. Far be it from me to disagree with you, but the Commander has a point.”

Ciri looked at him askance and lowered her voice. “Your family wanted help delivering mages _out_ of Templar hands.”

“And into the hands of those who were better equipped to guide and protect them,” Maxwell said. “The Circles don’t work, but that doesn’t mean _something_ isn’t needed.”

“They'll have time to work out exactly what that something is now that the magister isn't holding them in Redcliffe," Owain said. "I know what I think they should do, but I'm only a former Templar and a knight-lieutenant at that. My words don't carry much weight."

“I don’t have a dog in the fight, but the good Templars are worth their weight in gold,” Varric said. “We could have used a dozen Thrasks in Kirkwall to deal with the blood mages that kept popping up toward the end.”

Evelyn’s eyes lit up. “Oh! That’s right, you were there, weren’t you? You know the Champion! You wrote a book about her. What’s she like?”

“Funny,” Varric said at once. “Intense. She’s polarizing, I guess. You either love her or you hate her, but I don’t know anyone in Kirkwall who didn’t respect her.”

Dorian stirred his freshly delivered porridge and asked casually, “And where is she now?”

“Off doing stuff with her possessed boyfriend.” Varric waved his hand dismissively. “Do I look like a social secretary to you?”

“No,” Dorian drawled. “You look like a man who knows how to keep his friend’s secrets.”

Varric flashed him a sharp smile. “No idea what you’re talking about.”

Ciri was curious but decided not to pry. She had a healthy respect for other people's secrets given the number she kept. "I'll see you out by the gates if you're going out to the Breach."

Owain winked at her as she stood. “I wouldn’t miss it for anything.”

She laughed and started to muscle her way through the crowded tavern toward the door. Owain had a talent for making her smile. He always seemed to know what to say or do. And when he wasn’t making her smile, his kindness and gentle touch made her heart flutter.

Perhaps she’d been mistaken to think she could remain his colleague and nothing more. It wouldn’t surprise her; she was sorely out of practice in relationships and romance. But she just didn’t see it working when she intended to leave Thedas soon.

The walls surrounding Haven didn’t offer much protection from the wind, but it was enough for Ciri’s needs. She tucked herself into the natural windbreak between the wall and the trees and watched the people on the field come and go.

The training field had been demolished to make way for dozens of tents. Even now, late risers were poking their heads out to greet the morning. She’d met many of the new arrivals, and had not missed the fact that there was a simmering tension between Fiona and several of the First Enchanters, and the First Enchanters and the former Witchwood mages. There was little she could do to intervene, not even if she knew more. The new mages were allies, not members of the Inquisition.

Not far from where she stood, she heard the deep rumble of the Iron Bull speaking with Krem. She edged a little closer to their tent to listen in.

“– Told Dalish to keep her head down. They have enough mages for the Breach,” Krem said quietly.

The Iron Bull scoffed. “They’re up to their eyeballs in mages. No need for Dalish to get involved. You made the right call. Besides, you heard about what the Chantry made that one guy, Olgierd, do when the boss pissed them off?”

“I heard. We’ll keep a low profile. You do your thing, we’ll do ours.”

"That's the idea, if the boss can unwind enough to extend some trust my way."

“You _are_ a spy, Bull.”

“Hey, I’m a perfectly nice guy,” the Iron Bull protested.

“Said the spy.”

Ciri walked around the tree toward their tent, purposely taking louder steps than normal. Krem looked over in surprise, but the Iron Bull just greeted her with a laconic, “Boss.”

“Your Worship,” Krem said with a smile. “What do you make of these new trebuchets the commander had placed by the lake?”

She followed his gaze to the nearest one. The tents were set back several yards from it in a rough ring, and two soldiers stood by inspecting its gears and mechanisms.

“We haven’t seen the last of the Venatori,” Ciri told them, “and that’s likely only a small part of the Elder One’s army. We’re on the alert after foiling his plans with the mages. Undoing the Breach will only anger him further. Retaliation is to be expected.”

The Iron Bull nodded thoughtfully. “You want my guys sober at the party, just in case?”

“There’s going to be a party?”

“Yeah, one of the sisters let it slip,” he said. “They’re organizing something for if this succeeds. Some all-day thing.”

“Then yes, I think that would be best.”

The Iron Bull squinted out at the field as the mages slowly started to gather and crossed his arms across his mostly bare chest. He didn’t seem affected by the cold – or if he was, he was making sure not to show it. “You have any thoughts about what the Inquisition’s going to do after you close that thing?”

“What do you mean?” she asked.

“I mean, right now you have a handful of people with equal say, and they all have a different idea on what the Inquisition ought to be. You have no leader. No Inquisitor. An organization like this without someone heading it will splinter sooner or later.”

His eye wasn't on her, but still, she had to look away. No one had spoken of an Inquisitor. It had never come up in their meetings. Yet his words made a great deal of sense, and she disliked where that sense led. She knew, or thought she knew, what Cassandra or Cullen would do given leadership of the Inquisition, and disliked the idea of them undoing the work she'd done. It wasn't even her world, and yet she found herself a partisan of the mage cause just as much as Triss was. Leliana's politics aligned with hers, but unchecked, the spymaster might do terrible things to achieve her ends. The only reasonable option was Josephine, but taking her away from her role as ambassador seemed counterproductive.

She sighed. “I came here as a bodyguard, you know. All this nonsense about me being the Maker’s Hand is just because I was in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

“Right, but now you are,” the Iron Bull said. “So what are you going to do next?”

She followed his gaze out to the growing crowd of mages and Templars. Cassandra had made it out there, as had Olgierd and Triss. Both her friends held new-looking staves, and all three of them seemed to be searching the area. For her, most likely.

“They already have me making most of the decisions,” she said finally, reluctantly. “I doubt much would change if they made it official.”

“Huh.”

“What?”

“You almost sound like a Qunari,” he said. “We don’t pick leaders from the strongest, or the wisest. We pick the ones who can make the hard decisions – and live with the consequences.”

Her life was a string of hard decisions she’d had to live with. Better the ones to come be hers than someone else’s. “Iron Bull,” she said with a final nod. “Krem.”

“Boss.”

“Your Worship.”

Ciri made her way to the crowd of mages, doing her best to return the avalanche of greetings as graciously as possible while she moved through the gathering in search of her friends. Olgierd spotted her first and raised a hand above the heads, calling her name. She excused herself from an effusive enchanter’s attempt at conversation and headed in his direction.

“Since when do you two use staves?” she asked him and Triss.

“I’ll give it back to the smith once this is done,” Olgierd said, looking down at the staff in his hand with distaste. “I’d not have accepted it at all had I not been told it would help channel the magic for this task.”

“I might keep mine,” Triss said. “I tried a few spells with it, and it seems to concentrate and focus magic well. It could be interesting to try, at least. It has a different feel to it than the staves back home.”

“You did want to learn their magic,” Ciri said quietly, mindful of the crowd surrounding them.

Triss offered her a smile tinged with frustration. “On the one hand, I’m sure there will be plenty of enchanters willing to teach a half-trained former apprentice. On the other, that gets me nowhere near the people that actually make the decisions. I can’t affect any real change here. I can’t _help_.”

“I’m sorry, Triss,” Ciri said. “I can’t help but feel like I stole this from you somehow. You wanted to come and help, and now –”

“No, it’s not your fault,” Triss interrupted. “Don’t think for a second that I blame you. I’ll manage. And I can figure out my own way of helping.”

“Bully your way into another meeting,” Olgierd suggested. “Half of what they implemented for the mages came from your lips, Merigold. If they’ve any sense, they’ll have recognized your worth by now.”

“Thanks,” Triss said, looking somewhat startled.

Cassandra called out to Ciri from behind her, and she turned to see the Seeker pushing her way through the throng.

“Lady Hand,” Cassandra greeted her. “Everyone has gathered for the walk to the Breach. Are you ready?”

“I am,” she said. “Have Solas and the Trevelyans arrived?”

“Just now. Come. You should lead the way.”

Fiona and Cullen awaited them at the head of the crowd, the two of them talking civilly as they looked out at the assembled mages. Cullen broke from the conversation to greet Ciri, nodding politely to Olgierd and Triss.

“Our scouts made a sweep of the pass early this morning,” he told her. “It’s still free of demons, and should be safe enough for the walk.”

She hadn’t even considered that might pose a problem. “Thank you for thinking of that, Commander,” she said sincerely. “I appreciate your foresight.”

He smiled slightly. "That’s what I'm here for. The Grand Enchanter took a headcount of her mages, and we have one hundred and fifty-six willing to assist. Of the Inquisition’s mages, all eighteen are present, excluding Minaeve and Jance. And we have the full complement of current and former Templars with us.”

“Even Ser Rylen?” Ciri asked.

“He’s having a good day,” Cullen said. “He’s prepared to do his duty.”

Ciri turned to Fiona. “Is it safe to have so many mages channeling magic into me?”

“Yes,” Fiona said shortly. “Most of them will not be able to channel much of their magic. It will be dispersed ambiently with no danger to you or the environment. But small amounts add up, and the cumulative effect will be as if three dozen powerful mages were channeling all their magic directly into you. There is little danger, so long as you don’t try to hold on to the magic for too long.”

“Then I suppose there’s no time to waste,” Ciri said. “Shall we go?”

Fiona inclined her head, gravely formal. “After you, Lady Hand.”

* * *

The devastated temple hadn’t changed much since Ciri had last set foot in it. The fires had died, but the burnt corpses still stood their lonely vigil, and the jutting fingers of red lyrium still hummed eerily at a pitch Ciri could almost but not quite hear. She followed Cassandra and Solas down into the shattered pit below the Breach as Fiona, Evelyn, and Letia directed the mages into position along the sides, with Cullen’s Templars placing themselves behind them every twenty-five mages or so.

“Deep, even breaths, _da’len_ ,” Solas instructed her. “You know how to feel your own magic. Now you must open yourself to the magic surrounding you.”

“I understand.”

She closed her eyes and concentrated inward as Solas and Cassandra shouted instructions to the assembled mages. Her magic leaped to respond after so many sessions of meditation. She called it to the surface and breathed slowly, steadily, shifting her focus from inward to outward. Then the first wave of magic broke over her, and her own rose in response, latching on and drawing it in.

Then another, and another. And another. She lost count as she rose higher, spiraling toward the heavens on a sea of magic. Her blood practically fizzed with the power filling her, and she held in a giddy laugh. _Mustn’t make the Templars nervous_.

She opened her eyes to find her feet still on the cracked and pitted ground, her skin glowing with the infusion of magic. Her thoughts felt distant. All her worries seemed insignificant. She looked around idly, up to the walls where the mages stood, and blinked in confusion.

They were shadows! Flat, dull imitations of real people! Where had the real ones gone? She could see a few here and there – Triss was a fiery bright glow, and Olgierd a dark flame, both solid and honest, and some of the other mages, like Evelyn, Dorian and Fiona, were almost but not quite present. But most of them were thin and washed out, barely substantial. She glanced about wildly, but nothing changed. The Templars might as well have been hewn from rock for all the life they seemed to have.

“The Breach!” a shadowy Cassandra prompted her. “Do it!”

She looked at Solas and almost cried out in relief to see he hadn’t changed at all. “Focus, _da’len_ ,” he murmured. “You cannot hold this magic. Use it.”

She swallowed her misgivings and turned her attention to the sleeping Breach above, thrusting her marked hand skyward. Her own magic clung tightly to the power that coursed through her, but she forced it out, channeling it upwards and outwards in a sparkling stream of emerald light that raced higher, ever higher, until it connected to the gaping wound in the Fade.

It fought, resisted, but she was stronger this time, had the magic of almost two hundred mages aiding her. She bore down on it with all her will, and achingly slowly, then all at once, it slammed shut. The backlash of the connection breaking sent her and the rest of the mages sprawling, and her head spun as the extra magic slowly drained away.

Cassandra, real again, reached her first, holding out a hand to help her back to her feet. "You did it," she said as if Ciri were unaware.

Ciri gripped Cassandra’s arm to ground herself, looking around again. People. Real, flesh and blood people. Not stone, not shadows. She took a shaky breath and answered Cassandra.

“We did it. All of us.”

Solas joined her, a strange light in his oddly colored eyes. “You seemed to have an unusual reaction to holding that magic,” he commented as Cassandra walked off ahead of them.

She shuddered. “I – it doesn’t matter. The magic affected how I saw the world, but it’s over now. It was just an illusion, or a delusion, something. It was wrong.”

They began walking slowly toward the exit, following the mages now making their way from the temple. Ciri smiled at the handful of people waiting for them ahead, not at all surprised to see Triss and Olgierd standing with Owain, Evelyn, and Dorian.

“What did you see?” he asked.

“That much magic...I think it changes how a person sees people,” she told him quietly. “I looked around, and most of the mages seemed...flat. Shadows of real people. The Templars looked like human golems.”

His eyes flickered with some unnameable emotion. “You believe it is too much magic that causes this perception?” He sounded skeptical.

“It must be,” she said. “I _know_ that they’re all people, but in that moment, I thought I was surrounded by pale imitations. It was – ugh. Solas, you’re descended from the Elvhen, aren’t you?”

He cocked his head at her. “Why do you ask?”

“I’m sorry if you were keeping it a secret, but I thought you must be a recent descendant,” she explained. “The stories you tell of Elvhenan are so detailed, and the disdain you seem to have for the Dalish….”

He was silent for a long moment, then finally he said. “You are correct, _da’len_. I did have family from those long-gone days. Why do you ask?”

“From your tales, it sounds like the Elvhen had more magic than the mages of today.”

“A great deal more,” he confirmed.

“As much as I was channeling?”

“A little less, on average.”

“Then – then I don't know that I should ever want to meet one of the Elvhen if one still lived," she admitted. "If holding that much magic made me think all these people weren't real, even just for a minute, what would the immortal elves of the past make of us? I can't help but think it's a recipe for disaster."

She couldn’t quite read the expression on his face – bemusement? – as he replied, “I believe I understand. But you should know that any Elvhen would look at you and see a real person.”

“That’s just it,” she said as they approached her friends. “They’re all real.”

She accepted Triss' hug gladly and smiled up at Olgierd as he clasped her on the shoulder.

“Well done,” Olgierd said quietly.

“I couldn’t have done it on my own,” she deflected.

Evelyn darted in to wrap an arm around her waist, beaming. “That was incredible! I’ve never been involved in such powerful magic before.” She gave her a firm hug and let go, chattering excitedly.

As their small group began to follow the moving herd of mages, she felt her hand brush up against another. She looked to the side to see Owain walking next to her. He gave her a small, warm smile, and his hand brushed hers again.

 _He’s real_.

Maybe she’d never see him after she went back home. Perhaps they’d be nothing more to each other than a brief fling. But she needed something after the wonder and horror of holding so much magic, and she didn’t feel like denying herself any longer.

She turned her hand and threaded her fingers through his, squeezing his hand briefly. He squeezed back gently, letting their joined hands swing between their bodies as they walked.

He had to think this was silly, holding hands like they were children. He was a man grown, nearly thirty – surely he’d had plenty more experience than she had! And it wasn’t like she was a babe in the woods. There had been Mistle, and all that miserable fondling with Auberon, and the liberties she allowed Hotspurn to take before he died on top of her. But still –

Still, this was all she wanted right now. She hoped the childishness wouldn’t put him off.

“Stop thinking so hard,” Owain chided her, and she looked up to see him still smiling. He raised their hands to his lips and kissed her knuckles. “This is fine.”

She blushed, and to cover it, teased him gently. “Careful now, Ser Owain. You’ll ruin your fearsome image with the other soldiers if you play the gallant suitor.”

He laughed loudly and pulled her along out of the ruins. “Come on. We don’t want to be late to your party.”

* * *

Even hours later, an air of celebration still held Haven firm in its grasp. Bonfires dotted the village, and party-goers danced and drank. Flissa and her workers brought out two whole ram carcasses and roasted them on spits, and ale and spirits flowed freely. Ciri had paced her drinking and stayed clear-headed, though she made sure to take a turn around the makeshift dance floor with almost everyone who crossed her path, man or woman. Owain claimed the most dances, though not even Solas or Chancellor Roderick had escaped her.

Finally, as the sun set and the moons began to rise, she slipped away from the reveling crowd and found a perch by the wall of the chantry where she could look over the merriment. Sera was a whirlwind of activity, never still for a moment. Varric was surrounded by a dozen eager listeners as he held forth with a riveting tale. But more interesting to Ciri were the people who’d come together.

Olgierd and Josephine had danced together exactly three times, and though they were always well within the bounds of propriety, there was something to Josephine’s smile that caught her eye. Blackwall and Scout Malika had snuck off into a dark corner an hour past, Malika tugging at his sleeve and Blackwall red-cheeked and chuckling as he followed. Evelyn and Cullen orbited each other like celestial bodies, drawn together but never touching, all shy eyes and awkward smiles. And Maxwell and Dorian sat out the dancing by one of the out of the way bonfires, shoulder to shoulder and knee to knee, heads tilted together and deep in conversation.

This was the way it should be, she thought. A pause to enjoy life before the work began again tomorrow. They’d start their hunt for the creator of the Breach in earnest once everyone had slept off their hangovers, and once he’d been brought to justice, she’d finally be able to leave.

She lifted her eyes to the strange, swirling clouds that had replaced the Breach and sighed as she heard purposeful footsteps approach from behind.

“Is the party over?” she asked Cassandra as the Seeker came to stand at her side.

“What? Am I really so dour?” Cassandra demanded.

"No, I just thought – forgive me. You haven't spoken much to me since I recruited the mages from the Witchwood. I assumed you needed me for something," Ciri said.

“That is my fault, not yours,” Cassandra said firmly. “ _I_ assumed the Hand of the Maker would act in ways that I believed the Maker would approve of. It was presumptuous. I do not need anything. I simply wished to talk.”

“I’m always happy to speak with you,” Ciri told her.

“It was modest of you to give credit to others, but you were right,” Cassandra said. “This was a victory of alliance. One of the few in recent memory. And such an alliance will need new direction with the Breach sealed.”

Ciri held up a fist and raised a finger with each point. “We find the man behind it and bring him to justice, we close the rifts, we deal with the demon army from the future, we prevent Celene’s assassination, we save Lydes from becoming a red lyrium farm –”

Cassandra chuckled. “Perhaps we have too many directions to head in. Whatever the case, I have faith in you, Lady Hand.”

“Ciri,” she insisted yet again.

Cassandra hesitated. “Lady Ciri,” she compromised.

“ _Fine_.”

They both looked up sharply as a loud bell rang out across the village. People looked up in shock and dismay as previously relaxed soldiers grabbed their discarded weapons and ran toward the gates. She exchanged a grim look with Cassandra and pulled on her magic to step between, leaving the chaos by the chantry to grab her steel sword from her room. She stepped back a second later, _Zireael_ in hand.

“Come on,” she said shortly.

They raced to the gates through the milling, fearful crowd, the bell still clanging ominously. She was relieved to see all her companions there, even Blackwall, his gambeson knotted differently than before. Josephine stood close to Olgierd, smile long since vanished, and Cullen scanned the gathered men and women with stern professionalism.

Ciri addressed him first. “What’s happened, Commander?”

“A watchguard just reported in. It’s a massive force, the bulk of it coming over the mountain.” He gestured to the gates.

“Under what banner?” Josephine asked anxiously.

His answer was swift and hard. “None.”

Josephine recoiled in shock. “None?”

“We expected something to happen, though I thought we’d have more time,” Ciri said. “Commander, we need to get the men out to the trebuchets –”

Then something heavy banged on the gate. Once. Twice.

She drew her sword.


	26. Destruction and Revelations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A strange boy arrives just ahead of an army of corrupted Templars. Ciri comes face to face with the man behind the Breach.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> beta-read by brightspot149. Thank you!

Something banged on the gates a third time. Ciri braced for the enemy to come crashing through, her hand tight around the hilt of her sword. Instead, a youngish-sounding voice called out from beyond the gates.

“I can’t come in unless you open!”

Ciri looked to Cullen. He nodded at the Iron Bull and Owain, who hauled open the gates. A gangly young man barely out of his teens half stumbled through, his face obscured by a battered, wide-brimmed hat. At his feet, three heavily armored men lay dead, their helms and breastplates marred by jagged red crystals that seemed to be growing through the metal.

“I’m Cole,” the young man said anxiously, pushing back the brim of his hat to reveal a ghostly-pale face and nearly colorless blue eyes. “I came to warn you. Oh!” he exclaimed, staring at Ciri. “You’re not from here!”

“The warning, Cole?” Ciri prompted the strange boy, ignoring the stares from the others.

Cole blinked and turned back to look out the open gates to the dead scattered just beyond. “I came to help. People are coming to hurt you. You probably already know.”

“Speak sense,” Cullen said impatiently.

Cole leaned in close as if sharing a secret. "The Templars come to kill you."

“ _Templars_?” Cullen demanded. “What madness is this? Attacking over our alliance with the mages?”

“The red Templars belong to the Elder One,” Cole said. “He knows what you did. You made him angry when you took his mages.” He pointed across the lake to a short mountain where the enemy forces were amassing, and Ciri squinted. Something didn’t seem right about the height of the man at the head of the army. “There.”

Cullen swore. “Maker’s breath, that’s Samson! Why would he do this?”

"Is Samson the enormous one?" she asked. She could see a normal-sized man standing with the cadaverous giant, but at this distance, she couldn't make out any features.

“No, he’s the one holding the former Knight-Commander of Kirkwall’s sword,” Cullen said grimly. “I don’t know the monster.”

Ciri nodded. Cullen would recognize a former brother or sister from Kirkwall. “We need a plan, Commander. Any ideas you have, quickly.”

“Haven isn’t built to withstand this sort of attack,” he said. “If we’re to have any chance at winning this, we’ll need to turn the tide quickly. The faster we get those trebuchets into play, the better our chances.”

“Iron Bull,” Ciri called out. “Have the Chargers make a sweep of Haven. Get all the villagers to the chantry to take shelter. Evelyn, go with them. Your healing skills will be needed. Olgierd, Triss, Varric, Cassandra, Blackwall, with me.”

“Yes, Boss.”

“We’re with you, My Lady,” Cassandra said firmly.

Olgierd turned to Josephine and lightly touched her elbow. “Go with Evelyn, Lady Josephine.”

Josephine swallowed hard, then drew herself up proudly. “Stay safe, Messere Olgierd. Come back to me in one piece.”

“You have my word.”

Evelyn, Josephine, and the Chargers took off back toward Haven, and Cullen raised his voice to address the assembled soldiers and mages.

“Mages! The invaders are Templars – this fight will not be easy! Templars! Do not let our mages fall to Smites and Silences! Guard each other’s backs! With the Hand! For your lives – for the Inquisition!”

They let out a roar and rushed through the gates past Ciri and her small group. Her heart clenched as a particularly tall Templar passed by in the company of Dorian, Solas, and Sera.

_Don’t die – please don’t die._

She pushed down her worry. There was no time to fret. “Let’s go.”

They pressed straight ahead through the mess of tents to the trebuchet on the bank. She didn’t need to tell her companions what to do; they split off in pairs, Blackwall and Varric, Cassandra and Olgierd, standing ready to defend against attackers on either side. Ciri and Triss hung back behind the trebuchet, watching and waiting.

The enemy Templars poured around the frozen lake from both sides as the soldiers closest to the trebuchet twisted it on its base.

“Keep them off us!” one of the soldiers called out.

Between one breath and the next, the army was on them. Ciri braced against the assault, cutting down a Templar with strange red crystals growing from his helmet and spinning to face the next enemy. She ran him through, dancing back as Triss swung out with her staff and set a cluster of armored Templars on fire.

She took a hand off her sword hilt and waved it over the blade. A crackling sheen of ice trailed after her hand, coating the dark steel in a mystical frost colder than a Skelligan winter. In her peripheral vision, a giant bear – the shapeshifter from the Witchwood – plowed through a squad of enemy Templars, snarling and swiping with heavy claws.

She spun back and flung an arcane bolt at a monstrously deformed Templar. He looked grotesque, bare-chested and hunchbacked with discolored skin and huge crystals of red lyrium jutting out of his back. The Templar staggered, his shoulder ripped apart, and raised a clawed hand to fling a glob of something corrosive and red at her. She dodged and lashed out with _Zireael_ , cutting deep into his malformed ribs. He swung at her with a long, clawed arm. She pirouetted out of the way and darted back in to slice at his unprotected stomach.

 _Dead_.

She moved on to the next, Triss at her back and tents trampled into the ground all around her. There seemed to be no end to the strange Templars. With each new foe she faced, she braced for the bone-aching wave of a Silence or a Smite, but it never came. They favored stranger tactics. Only her hard-earned reflexes allowed her to dodge the sizzling globs of molten _something_ the deformed Templars threw from a distance with unerring accuracy. The larger, more heavily armored Templars that seemed fused with their armor had a terrifying ability to turn the somewhat normal-looking ones into grotesques. And they hit hard, her arms trembling with every sword strike she caught on her blade.

Blood spattered her face. It smelled off, hot and burnt like the strange molten projectiles. She wiped her cheek with the back of her hand and dove back in.

A Templar exploded into flame before he could touch the trebuchet. One of the mages screamed, high and piercing, and the bear roared in response. Arrows flew, and Varric’s crossbow answered. Ciri flickered across the battlefield, cutting down their Templars, slashing _Zireael_ ’s blade through crystal and armor and flesh again and again. Her fingers slipped around the hilt, slick from the wrong-smelling blood.

 _Again_.

The trebuchet's heavy counterweight released, and the boulder flew through the night. It landed with a muffled _whump_ beyond the treeline. A dozen distant voices cried out in agony.

One of the soldiers manning the trebuchet shouted to Ciri. “Go check on the other trebuchet! They aren’t firing!”

Ciri glanced around the battlefield. There were enough mages and Inquisition soldiers still holding the line. She darted through the ether, coming out to gut an enemy Templar, and turned to Blackwall and Varric. “Find Triss! We’re going to the next trebuchet!”

She did it again, cutting down a Templar pressing Cassandra back toward the tents, and repeated her instructions to Olgierd and the Seeker. She stepped through the ether a final time, back to Triss.

The six of them fought their way up the path, mud and snow churning red beneath their boots. They slashed and lunged and dodged, always pressing forward. Sweat dripped down her forehead, unpleasantly cool in the cold night air. Her arms trembled with every blow she blocked.

Triss swore as the trebuchet came into view. Enemy Templars stood around it, corpses sprawled at their feet.

“Damn them!”

Varric shot the farthest Templar through the eye slit of his helmet with deadly aim, and he dropped like a stone. Ciri raised her tired arms and charged into battle.

 _Again_.

“Damn – Ciri!” Triss called as she turned one of the corpses over.

She looked over to see what upset her friend so, and her heart sank. Mage robes, and white-blond hair. Jance, the apprentice. Damn it. She knelt beside him and closed his eyes with a gentle hand, wishing there was more she could do.

“Lady Ciri, we need to man the trebuchet,” Cassandra said.

Blackwall took the siege machine in at a glance. “It only needs one person on the crank. The rest of us will keep the bastards off your back.”

“Cassandra,” Ciri ordered her, standing up again. “Quickly.”

“Yes, my lady.”

Cassandra rushed to the trebuchet platform, and Ciri drew on her magic, casting what Solas had called a “heroic aura” spell. Her arms stopped trembling. Her pounding heart slowed. At her sides, Triss and Olgierd looked similarly bolstered.

Not a moment too soon, either. More Templars came up the path from where they’d come from, and still more from the far side of the trebuchet by the frozen lake. They swarmed around their battered group, weapons gleaming dully in the moonlight.

 _Again_.

Ciri threw herself into the fight. She dodged molten projectiles, she spun and ducked and slashed. Crystal and armor screeched against steel swords. Blood stained the ground. Bodies fell.

The counterweight dropped as Olgierd ran an archer through, and the boulder flew through the night. Ciri dispatched her opponent and turned to watch, her heart in her throat.

It smashed into the side of the mountain with an echoing boom. Snow cascaded down in a torrent, cutting off the rest of the army. The last of the Templars by the trebuchet fell at Blackwall’s feet as the snow crashed down into the pass.

“Fucking _finally_ ,” Varric muttered. “Let’s reload this thing and –”

A blood-chilling screech echoed through the mountain, bestial and full of fury. Ciri glanced up and shouted a warning, flinging herself between time and space to grab Cassandra and drag her off the trebuchet in the nick of time. A gout of strange red fire engulfed the war machine, and it burned with the same peculiar smell as the Templars’ blood.

“They have a _dragon_?” Varric yelled.

“Back to Haven!” Ciri cried as the dragon circled above the village, setting tents and buildings alight with its sickly red flames. “Now!”

They pelted back down the path past the trail of corpses they’d left behind. The smith, Harritt, shouted for help as they neared his workshop, its roof in flames and its door jammed. He threw himself against it as it held fast.

Ciri tugged him out of the way for Triss as her friend blew it open with Aard, her hand shaping the sign in the air. Harritt darted inside with a quick thanks, and they ran on.

“Move! Move it!” Cullen shouted as mages and soldiers rushed through the gates. “Everyone back to the chantry, _now_! It’s the only building that might hold against that monster!” He gave Ciri a grim look before he turned to follow the retreating men and women. “At this point, just make them work for it.”

The peace and merriment that had filled Haven not half an hour before were nowhere to be found. The dead filled the winding dirt paths as the grotesque Templars did their best to stymie the retreat. Slushy mud churned brownish-red beneath her feet and homes burned on all sides. They pressed forward, not stopping for anything. Ciri was grateful she'd thought to send the Chargers into the village for the noncombatants. Barring extreme foolishness or poor luck, they were all safe within the chantry.

Revered Mother Kordula, the Chantry emissary, held open the doors for them, a bloodied mace clutched in her hand. “Quickly now!” she said, her eyes darting across their weary faces. “Is that all of you?”

Ciri nodded, and the revered mother closed the door behind them and slammed the heavy bar down across it, blocking out the invaders. She took a step inside and promptly tripped over someone’s legs. They moaned in pain, and she looked down to see one of the Inquisition’s Templars lying on the floor, her thigh sliced open to the bone. A mage hurried over, potion in hand, and knelt at her side.

“Easy, Ser. We’ll have you back on your feet in no time.”

Cullen called out her title from deeper within the packed Chantry. Ciri carefully wove her way through the tight crowd in his direction, her companions at her heels. She broke through to find him standing near the wall with the other advisors and a few mages and Templars. Raúl slumped tiredly against the stone wall, a bandage around his forearm and a gash across his cheek. Owain seemed unharmed, but exhaustion lined his face. He nodded to Ciri, looking her up and down carefully for injuries.

“You are well?” Josephine inquired, giving Olgierd the same look over.

“As well as can be expected,” Olgierd said, “but in one piece, as promised.”

Ciri gave Cullen her attention. “Commander, that dragon –”

“Maker, I know.” He sighed explosively. “Whatever advantage over the invaders we might have had with the trebuchets, that monster just stole from us.”

“Archdemons look like that.”

Ciri jerked around, heart pounding. Cole was suddenly _there_ , and she was sure he hadn’t been a moment before. He perched on an empty chair between Raúl and Chancellor Roderick, watching everyone from beneath the brim of his broad hat.

“I saw one in the Fade once,” Cole continued. “That’s what it looked like.”

The Inquisition’s people didn’t frighten easily, but such a pronouncement had them shifting nervously. Leliana cut in before it got out of hand.

“Impossible,” she declared. “The last Blight was only a decade ago. We would have seen much more darkspawn activity on the surface before the appearance of an archdemon if this truly was one.”

Cullen shook his head. “I don’t care what it looks like,” he said angrily, ever practical. “It’s cut a path for that army! They’ll kill everyone in Haven!”

Cole looked up at Cullen with pale blue eyes. “The Elder One wants the Maker’s Hand, not the village.” His strange gaze shifted to Ciri. “He wants the Hand’s hand, the magic hand. _Laedrit lámh._ He won’t stop until he has it.”

“Why?” Ciri asked. “Why does he want me so badly?”

Cole blinked at her. “I don’t know. He’s too loud to listen to. It hurts to try.”

Cullen ignored Cole. “Lady Hand, they have our backs to the wall here. I don’t see any way for us to survive this. The avalanche slowed them – we could turn the last trebuchet, cause one more slide.”

“That would bury Haven, Commander,” Cassandra objected.

The look on Cullen’s face reminded her of Fiona’s when she’d met her in Redcliffe, grieved but resolute. “We’re dying, Cassandra. But we can make it happen on our terms.”

“Before you decide to kill us, Commander, you should know hope isn’t completely lost,” Chancellor Roderick said calmly. “There’s a path out the back of the chantry that leads into the mountains – the pilgrim’s path. I’ve walked it before, in the summer months. We can evacuate with their army none the wiser.”

“But once they find out we’ve left, they’ll pursue us,” Owain pointed out. “We need to stop them here.”

Ciri looked beyond their group to the packed chantry, at the injured, the dying, the frightened. Here and there, sisters and brothers led others in the chant, their voices barely louder than the weeping and moaning. Parts had been sectioned off into a makeshift infirmary – she could see Evelyn’s blonde hair among the mages there, and Mihris’ gray. And above it all, she could still hear the dragon screeching outside.

_They’re all depending on us. On me._

“If I turn the trebuchet –”

“Ciri, _no_!” Triss interrupted.

“Triss, yes!” she shot back. “If I turn the trebuchet and cause an avalanche, how long will I need to stall before everyone’s safely out of reach?”

Cullen considered it, then shook his head. “Too long. Even with all your powers, they’d overwhelm you. We’ll need to send a small force out to hold that position. Half an hour, maybe longer.”

“Volunteers only,” Ciri said, her thoughts racing. “Mages, preferably. Ones who can Fade step, or use a similar power. They’ll have an easier time escaping.”

That cut off whatever Owain was going to say, and he looked away, frustration written across his weary face.

“Is your power enough to see you to safety?” Josephine asked anxiously.

Ciri nodded. “It is.”

“I’ll need to send soldiers with you,” Cullen said. “That trebuchet isn’t loaded.”

 _Damn_.

“Cullen, I can’t guarantee their safety if they come –” Ciri started.

Cullen cut her off implacably. “This is war, Lady Hand. None of us are safe.”

“Then choose people who understand that.” She looked to Cole, who hopped off the chair. She climbed up and raised her voice above the din. “Inquisition! You will be evacuating shortly through a back passage. Stay calm and help the injured, and follow Chancellor Roderick and the advisors. A small group will buy time for the retreat. I need volunteers from among the mages – come forward _only_ if you feel you can stand against the enemy for half an hour, and you know the Fade step spell.”

Olgierd and Triss exchanged a look, and Triss spoke for both of them. “You’re not leaving us behind.”

“Thank you,” she said quietly, watching the crowd shift and mutter. Then someone started pushing through in her direction, and another followed. Then two more. Less than a dozen mages came to her in all, every one of them still battered from the earlier fighting.

Fiona looked at her with steely eyes. “I will guard your back, Lady Hand.”

“You have my thanks, Grand Enchanter.”

Ciri looked at the rest. Solas, Vivienne, Dorian, Letia, and a handful of mages from the rebellion. “You,” she said, with a nod to the ones she knew. “And you, you, and you.”

The three she indicated, a burly, black-haired man with a bristling mustache and an olivine complexion, a pale, wiry man with a short blond ponytail, and a curvy woman with heavy freckles and riotous brown curls, all nodded back.

“What’s the plan?” Dorian asked.

“We’re stalling until everyone’s clear, then we’re triggering an avalanche with the last trebuchet,” Ciri said. “We’re burying Haven, and the invading army with it.”

One of the mages she didn't know blanched, but Vivienne smiled coldly. "Good," she said. "As they have no mercy for Haven's villagers, we'll show none to them."

Owain caught her by the hand as she turned to lead the group to the chantry doors. She looked back, and her heart skipped a beat at the storm brewing in his eyes.

“I’ll come back,” she said softly.

His lips twitched with a ghost of a smile. “I’m holding you to that.”

Her hand slipped slowly from his grasp. “With me, everyone,” she said as she tore her gaze from his. Triss and Solas were the first to follow. Olgierd, saying his own goodbyes to Josephine, was the last.

Two soldiers, still looking relatively fresh, met them at the doors. They saluted sharply as Ciri approached.

“Corporal Krenn, Your Worship!” the woman barked. “We’ll get it loaded for you right and proper!”

“Private Noyes, Your Worship!” echoed the man. He was barely out of adolescence. “We’re with you to the end, My Lady!”

Ciri just nodded, throat tight. She couldn’t promise them anything, and they both knew it.

Another pair of soldiers lifted off the heavy beam barring the door, and their group slipped through the gap back into the cold night. It slammed shut behind them, drawing the attention of a roaming squad of Templars.

“ _Move_!”

Fiona swept her staff in a tight arc at the approaching Templars, and lightning lanced down from the sky. They stiffened and jerked as it struck them, moaning through clenched teeth. Solas made a tugging motion with his staff and a faint green wave of energy crashed down on the injured men, slamming them to the ground with bone-shattering force.

They ran on, the two soldiers in the center. Ciri wasn’t sure who cast it, but the cool dry-water sensation of the barrier spell fell over her as they charged ahead. At her side, Triss flung fire at the deformed Templars, while Letia cast a spell that froze them in their tracks. Vivienne conjured a gleaming sword of pure light and wielded it with a dueler’s grace.

And at Dorian’s imperious wave, the dead rose to defend their flank.

The fight to the trebuchet passed in a blur of spellfire and blood. The wiry mage cried out and stumbled, molten red burning a hole through his robe. Olgierd slung the mage’s arm over his shoulders and continued on, still tossing out fire with his free hand. Ciri cut down one of the Templars guarding the trebuchet and spun out of the way as his wrong-smelling blood spurted from his neck.

“Quickly now!” she said to the two soldiers. “We’ll keep them off you.”

Krenn and Noyes hastened to the small pile of boulders, rolling one over to the trebuchet’s sling quickly and carefully. The burly, mustachioed mage helped them lift it into place.

As Vivienne, Fiona, Solas, and the injured mage placed magical mines around the area in anticipation of the next wave, Ciri took advantage of the momentary respite to speak to the last of the rebel mages.

“If we’re fighting alongside each other, I’d like to know your name.”

“Not one for calling someone ‘hey you’?” the mage joked, not taking her eyes off the path. “Ilana Crane of the Cumberland Circle. That’s Kaspar from Perendale helping with the boulder. The injured one is Derren from Kinloch Hold.”

There was still no sign of the enemy as the soldiers and Kaspar finished loading the boulder and winching the sling into position. "Why did you volunteer?"

“You asked for fighters, and I’m a battlemage,” Ilana said simply. “Besides, you saved us from a world of trouble when you took down that magister. We owe you, Lady Hand.”

Ciri frowned. “I’m not the Hand of the Maker.”

Ilana shook her head, sending her thick brown curls flying. “The way I hear it, you’ve been involved in more than one miracle. Tell you what,” she said as the Templars started to approach their position. “If we survive this, I’ll call you whatever you want.”

“It’s a deal!” she yelled over the cries of the Templars as they triggered the first line of mines.

And the battle was on.

 _Again_.

* * *

Five minutes left. The bodies were starting to pile up, and their group was showing signs of fatigue. Derren had fallen by the tenth minute and Noyes by the twentieth. The ground was pitted and torn, covered in ice and burn marks and suspicious wet, shiny patches where some Templars had fallen that Ciri didn’t want to examine too closely.

“Nearly there,” she said, her arms trembling.

Kaspar gave her a dubious look and jabbed his staff at her. She sighed as warm energy flowed through her body, relieving minor aches and pains and soothing her overworked muscles.

Several yards away, a large pile of cracked red lyrium crystals lay still. Ciri could hardly believe it had been a man once, but the monstrous thing – eight feet tall with a clublike arm and massive spikes coming off its back – had worn a Templar skirt and helm, both absurdly small on its massive, distorted body.

It had killed Noyes with insulting ease. Letia was the one to make victory possible, capturing it in a crushing prison while the rest of them bombarded it with all they had. Luckily, its – his – death had bought them a minute to breathe, and they laid another array of mines while Krenn aimed the trebuchet.

It creaked and slowly turned behind Ciri as she kept her eyes on the path.

“Triss,” she said under her breath.

Her friend leaned in slightly. “Yes?”

“The advisors reacted...poorly to Olgierd’s teleportation. _Don’t_ let them see your portal.”

“Understood.”

The creaking and groaning of the wood and gears stopped, and Krenn said tersely, “Ready.”

“Four more minutes,” Letia said. “Who’s watching the mountains for the signal?”

A screech cut off any response, and Ciri looked up to see the dragon circling overhead.

“Retreat!” she cried. “Go! Now!”

Kaspar grabbed Krenn. "This will be uncomfortable, Corporal," he said and dragged her along with him as he Fade-stepped away.

The others followed, some more reluctantly than the rest. As the dragon screeched again, she shouted at Olgierd and Triss, “ _Go_! I’m right behind you!”

Olgierd swore and disappeared in a cloud of red and black. Triss gave her an anguished look and raised a hand to summon a portal.

“ _Don’t. Die_.”

Her friend stepped through, and the portal snapped shut right as the dragon landed. It roared in pain as half a dozen magical mines went off beneath its bulk. Ciri dodged, throwing up a barrier over the trebuchet as it flailed, spurting red fire across the area.

_Crack-BOOM!_

The crates stacked against the rocks exploded violently, flinging her through the air. She landed on something soft and warm and scrambled off the dead Templar archer with a shudder. As she struggled to her feet, her ears ringing, the dragon screeched again, and Ciri reapplied her barrier, realizing with horror that she'd lost hold of _Zireael_ in the explosion.

Movement caught her eye. The cadaverous giant from atop the mountain was walking through the flames with a measured pace, his gaze fixed on her. Her breath caught in her chest.

 _What_ is _he_?

He was close to nine feet tall, and like the Templars, had shards of red lyrium growing from his face, warping and twisting his features. His ribs seemed to be _fused_ to his breastplate, growing over it to hold it in place. His hands were dark and clawlike. There didn’t seem to be anything human in his cold, staring eyes.

He stopped by the dragon, who subsided at his presence. Ciri’s skin crawled at the wrongness of the being. No dragon should look that tainted, that foul. Had this monster infected the dragon somehow?

“I have come for the Anchor,” the giant announced. “Surrender it willingly, and I will grant you a swift death.”

Ciri clenched her marked hand. “You killed _all these people_ just to get at the mark? What kind of monster are you?”

“I am beyond your understanding,” the giant said haughtily. “Children beg for answers to questions they cannot understand. My will is absolute. What are the lives of traitors and peasants to a god?”

“You’re mad,” Ciri breathed.

“What is madness?” the giant asked. “It is the knowledge of a truth too terrible to know. Beg for my mercy, pretender, for there are no gods to grant it to you. I once breached the Fade in the name of another. I stormed the Golden City to claim it for the God of Silence. And I will tell you this, Pretender, so you will know why I must succeed – I have seen the throne of the gods, and _it was empty_.”

There was an equally terrible emptiness behind the giant’s eyes.

“Who _are_ you?” Ciri demanded.

“Exalt the Elder One, Pretender,” the giant declared, extending a hand and dragging her forward with a wave of magic. “Exalt Corypheus. A new god for a better age.”

He gripped her by the wrist beneath her marked hand and dangled her in the air, a strange orb covered in thin, curving lines floating above his other hand. It crackled ominously with a red light. Ciri breathed evenly, calming her racing heart. _I can get out of this_. But she wouldn't. Attacking Corypheus or his dragon head-on was suicide, and she couldn't leave without starting the avalanche. Waiting it out was her best, worst, and only option.

“Your compliance will be rewarded with a painless death,” Corypheus promised her, staring with his horribly empty eyes. “Know that the anchor goes to serve a better master.”

Ciri made a good show of struggling. “Let me go!”

“The process of removing it begins now.”

She shrieked in agony as the red light around the orb flared and dragged at the green light in her palm, grasping and twisting. Her magic instinctively reached to do something, to lash out, to spirit her away, and she dragged it back with clenched teeth. _Not yet_.

Corypheus flung her away, and she collided with the trebuchet, her hand and shoulder screaming in pain and her back throbbing.

“It is permanent _,”_ he spat. “The arrogance – to claim my work through your clumsy flailing. You have _spoilt_ it.”

Ciri got to her feet, drawing her dagger and grasping her agate pendant with her smarting hand. She backed up against the heavy machinery of the trebuchet, the crank by her foot.

“Very well,” Corypheus continued darkly. “I shall begin anew, find another way to restore Tevinter and give Thedas the empire and god it deserves.”

Over his head, a faint streak of fire shot into the sky in the distance. Ciri didn’t let her triumph show on her face.

“And you, Pretender – no god can allow even such a paltry rival. Witness your end, and die with dignity.”

Ciri laughed scornfully. “Just _try_.”

Corypheus took one step forward, and Ciri channeled her magic into her agate pendant. Lightning, blinding white and scorching hot, shot down from the heavens to strike him in his deformed breastplate. He cried out in rage and pain as she kicked the crank, releasing the counterweight and sending the boulder flying.

She pulled on her magic and stepped through the ether as the snow pounded down the mountain onto Haven, injured, exhausted, and furious, her hand a leaden, agonizing weight at her side.


	27. Reconciliations and Schemers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Olgierd has some unexpected aid in saying goodbye and starting anew. Cullen opens up. Ciri's dreams are revealing, and the Chantry mothers want more than she's willing to give. Solas has information, and a course is laid.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> beta-read by brightspot149. Thank you!

Olgierd watched as Evelyn came to the mouth of the small tent and exchanged quiet words with Sister Leliana. He weighed the odds of the healer and the advisors allowing him entrance and found them stacked against him. And if Ciri was sleeping, it wouldn’t do to wake her. She’d seemed exhausted when she’d sent them off ahead of her.

She’d still managed to beat them to the pass. A wide-eyed soldier had told him of her arrival once he’d made it there himself. She’d appeared in their midst in a flash of pale green light, his old dagger clutched in one hand, the other shining like a beacon in the night. “It’s done,” she’d said, and keeled over unconscious, her injuries and the strain of the fight finally catching up to her.

The more credulous among them – and there were many – were already spreading the tale that the Maker Himself had delivered her to safety. And the Chantry officials didn’t seem to be doing anything to quell that belief.

He turned and trudged away through the calf-deep snow past the ragged row of makeshift tents and sputtering fires, shivering violently as the wind blew down the pass. People looked up as he passed, nodding or raising a hand in acknowledgment. He nodded back but kept moving.

The winds blew harder as he reached the start of the pass. He chafed his hands together and blew into them quickly, wrapping his arms around his chest for extra warmth. The two thin layers of silk and linen he wore offered precious little protection from the elements, even with the fox fur trim. He peered down the mountain. It was a sea of black at this hour, but he knew that Haven was down there, buried beneath hundreds of tons of ice and snow.

Most everyone in the Inquisition had lost everything they had brought to Haven. Only the people with rooms in the Chantry still had their belongings. Some kind soul had the foresight to take Ciri’s bags and crate with them as they evacuated, and they’d been placed in the largest tent along with the rest of the advisors’ belongings and bedrolls.

Olgierd had naught but the clothes on his back and the sword on his belt. His faithful Ifrit, his saddlebags...his lute and Iris’ rose...all were lost to him. In one blow, he’d been sundered from mementos of both his brother and his wife.

“ _You must let her go.”_

He closed his eyes, grimacing as the voice of his brother’s lookalike came to him. Had he not tried? Did he not see a future for himself here in Thedas, away from Redania and the nightmare of his past mistakes?

“You think if you tell her, she’ll push you away,” a voice piped up from behind him.

Olgierd jerked around to see the pale, scrawny boy from the gates who’d warned of the attack. Cole. He peered up at Olgierd from beneath his oversized hat with ghostly blue eyes and continued to speak.

“You don’t want her to, but it’s what you think you deserve,” Cole said. “Safer that way, no chance of hurting her. Can’t break her heart if she walks away.”

Olgierd dropped his hand to the hilt of his sword. “Are you in my _head_?”

“Your thoughts are loud,” the boy said, wide-eyed. He drew closer. “You’re afraid, but you shouldn’t be. The curse made you cold, closed, but you cared until you couldn’t. Now you’re open, healing, hurting. Iris was –”

“Watch your tongue when you speak of her,” Olgierd growled.

“Adventure told you to let her go,” Cole said. “You're afraid to because you think she'll be gone forever if you do. You try to remember the good parts, but the bad parts press in around the edges. She told you the Olgierd she loved was gone, but he came back!"

“What of it!” he demanded. “So what if I did? She died, and I wasn’t there for her!”

The scrawny boy took another step toward him. The brim of his hat almost brushed Olgierd’s nose. “You didn’t know what would happen when you caught Mirror’s attention. You made bad choices, but the curse wasn’t your fault. She won’t walk away when you tell her the truth. Listen to Adventure. It’s time to _let go_.”

He stared out at the dark expanse below, a strange sort of melancholy filling him. His hand dropped from his sword hilt – _why was he holding it?_ It was good that he was alone for this. Saying goodbye was difficult with an audience.

“Farewell, my love,” he whispered. “You were too good for me.”

He turned back to the camp and followed the single line of boot prints he’d laid down to get to the mouth of the pass. Something felt eased within him, like an old burden had been lifted. He laughed under his breath. He'd come all the way out here to brood, as Ciri would no doubt have accused him, and ended up finding some measure of peace instead.

Someone called out to him, and he looked over to see the horsemaster from the Hinterlands beckoning, a frown on his face. Olgierd shivered again and trudged in his direction.

“Been looking for you,” Dennet said tersely. “Help me get your beastie settled, would you? He’s riling up the herd.”

He clapped Dennet on the shoulder, smiling in relief. _Ifrit lived_. “You saved the horses?”

“Aye, and if you asked me if I could pull it off a second time, I couldn’t. Blind luck, I tell you. Follow me.”

Dennet led him off a ways into a copse of trees. Olgierd could hear the tramping hooves and the low neighing before he spotted them. Then they were there, almost fifty horses with all manner of coats, their leads tied to trees and makeshift picket lines and a handful of grooms tending them by torchlight.

Ifrit lunged at a groom as he came close, squealing loudly. His sides heaved as he breathed heavily, and Olgierd could see white around his soft brown eyes. The horses around him shifted anxiously, picking up his mood.

“Get back!” Olgierd snapped at the groom.

Ifrit swung his head toward Olgierd as the groom backed off. “Easy, boy,” Olgierd soothed him. “Easy.”

He kept up the quiet stream of words until Ifrit finally snorted at him, the whites of his eyes hidden again. He patted his temperamental gelding’s cheek softly and rubbed his strong neck. “Yes, that was terrifying, wasn’t it? But you’re a brave horse. You have to set a good example for the rest of the herd, don’t you?”

Ifrit blew hot, hay-scented air in his face at that.

“Zephyr is rubbing off on you,” Olgierd said with mock-sternness. “Mind your manners.”

He heard a soft laugh and looked to the side to see Rutherford tending to his own horse, a sturdy bay. "Do you always talk to your horse?" the commander asked.

“I don’t pretend he’s the greatest conversationalist,” Olgierd said, “but I got into the habit a few years ago when it was just the two of us on the road together. The sound of my voice keeps him calm when he gets in a mood.”

He gave Ifrit a final pat on the neck and beckoned the groom back.

“Will you spare a moment, ser?” Rutherford asked. “I’ve been meaning to speak with you.”

Olgierd looked at him, and for the first time in weeks, Rutherford held his gaze. “I’ve no pressing business elsewhere. But if this is going to be a lengthy conversation, could we seek out a fire? I’m chilled through.”

“Of course,” Rutherford agreed.

Olgierd followed him away from the herd and through the camp to the fire flickering brightly by the largest tent. Josephine fairly leaped off the crate she was using as a stool as they approached, looking him over worriedly.

“Ol – Messere Olgierd!” she exclaimed. Her hand twitched at her side. “Are you well? Have you seen a healer yet? Your robes are a mess!”

“It’s not my blood, Lady Josephine,” he assured her. He held out his hand, and she placed hers in it a hair too fast to be entirely proper, her slender fingers soft against his rough palm. He bent to brush a kiss over her knuckles gently, looking up to meet her eyes without standing from his bow.

She blushed, her hazel eyes bright with surprise.

“Your token was better than any armor, my lady,” he said softly. “I’ve no doubt your kindness saved my life.”

“Messere, you are too flattering by half,” she protested, but a smile curved her lips nonetheless.

“Then I’ll flirt half as much, and satisfy that charming modesty of yours as recompense for the lack of compliments I’m allowed to give,” he told her, standing straight again. A small part of him wondered at his timing. But this felt right.

“We must never leave work unfinished, Messere Olgierd,” she chided him with a hint of playfulness, the blush fading from her cheeks. “I shall take the half you’re leaving unsaid, and return them to you in kind.”

He laughed quietly. “You drive a hard bargain, Lady Ambassador.”

“I – you may call me by my name, if you like,” she said, looking up at him through long lashes.

“I’d like that,” he said. “But only if you call me Olgierd.”

A cross “a _-hem_ ” interrupted them as they stood there staring at each other like fools, and Olgierd looked to the fire to see Cassandra and Leliana still seated by it, Cassandra watching with dreamy-eyed interest and Leliana with an expression of a tailor measuring a man for his funeral suit. Rutherford, still standing by, seemed amused.

“Apologies, Commander,” Olgierd said. “You wished to talk.”

Rutherford cleared his throat. “Yes. Ladies, if you don’t mind –”

“Not at all,” Leliana said with a sharp smile. “We’ll be in the tent. Come, Josie. I’d like a word.”

Josephine’s hand slipped from his as she followed the others into the tent. He watched until the flap closed behind them, still smiling slightly. He didn’t know why, but for some reason, the thought of telling her of his past didn’t seem quite as daunting. _Soon_ , he resolved. She deserved to know him completely.

He joined Rutherford at the fire, taking Josephine’s crate and holding his hands out to the flames. Rutherford sat beside him in silence for a long moment, staring at the crackling fire. He seemed unusually hesitant, conflicted even.

“I find it helps to just talk if you don't know where to begin," Olgierd said.

Rutherford looked up at him. “Ah – yes.” He shook his head. “You may find this surprising, but I became a Templar because I wanted to help mages. As an initiate, I thought that was my life’s calling. Protecting mages from dangerous magic and from those who would do them harm.”

“What changed?”

“The Circle Tower was overrun by abominations and blood mages when I was nineteen. I’d only been a full Templar for a year. They killed so many of us... _tortured me_ ,” he added in a whisper. “It changed me, changed how I saw mages. I’m not attempting to justify it, but –”

“But you look at a mage and you see an enemy,” Olgierd interrupted.

“A living weapon would be more accurate,” Rutherford said, his eyes haunted. “And yet, the Inquisition was rescued by mages only a few hours ago – and three of them were apostates, no less. Not a single mage turned into an abomination on the battlefield despite the danger. I’d be an ass to keep clinging to my fears.”

“Most wouldn’t hold your fears against you,” Olgierd said.

Rutherford scoffed. “That’s kind of you, but no. My prejudice has already compromised my working relationship with my colleagues and allowed the Chantry to divide us when we should have been a united front. I’ve discussed this with Cassandra, and she agrees with me. We erred when we ceded to their demands.”

“You speak of the Harrowing.” Olgierd was surprised to hear him say so. Of all the advisors, Rutherford had seemed the most rigid.

“I do believe that the Harrowing is necessary, and I’m relieved you agreed to it,” Rutherford said. “But we should have never made it a requirement for staying with the Inquisition. The loyalty you and Triss Merigold show to the Hand is unquestionable. And I fear we frightened poor Minaeve terribly by including her in that demand.”

Olgierd shrugged. “I frighten her by breathing too loudly in her direction. She’s a skittish thing.”

“You do cut an intimidating figure, ser,” Rutherford said with a slight smile.

“Souvenirs of an ill-lived life,” Olgierd said, lightly touching the deep scar along the side of his head.

“I suspect we both have stories to tell.” Rutherford sighed and shifted on his crate. “Regardless, I wanted to apologize. We wronged you. _I_ wronged you. It’s past time I left the Templars behind me and lived up to my duties.”

“Apology accepted,” Olgierd said easily. He had no interest in making the man grovel, not after hearing his tale. “Perhaps the Inquisition can be a fresh start for the both of us.”

“Cullen Rutherford,” Rutherford said, holding out his hand. “Of the Inquisition.”

Olgierd grasped it, shaking his hand firmly. “Olgierd von Everec. Likewise, Commander.”

“You know, like Josephine said, you _can_ call me by my name,” Rutherford offered. He looked back into the fire and sighed again. “Maker, what a mess. I don’t suppose you know where we can go from here.”

“How dire is our situation?” Olgierd asked. “Were we able to bring much food with us?”

“Enough to feed everyone for a week and a half, maybe more,” Rutherford – Cullen – said. “We had plenty of dried goods within the chantry. But the horses will starve without feed. We can’t go to Chertswold. The army came from that direction. It’s sure to have been overrun. And the nearest village after that is over a week away.”

“Ciri will be able to collect provisions once she’s awake,” Olgierd said. “As for where to go, I’m unfamiliar with the Frostbacks. Perhaps Sister Leliana might send her scouts out once it’s light.”

“Lady Ciri can get provisions? Just how far can she Fade step?” Cullen asked. “From Haven to the camp was just under two miles. That should have been impossible, but she _is_ the Hand of the Maker.”

“Don’t let her hear you call her that.” Olgierd considered Cullen for a moment. “I don’t believe there’s a limit to how far she can travel.”

“ _Maker’s breath_.” Cullen covered his mouth with his hand, his eyes wide. He took a shaky breath and collected himself. “That’s – all right. She saved everyone last night. I know her and I trust her. She’s a good person with a true and kind heart.” He said it slowly, carefully, as if doing his best to convince himself.

“For what it’s worth,” Olgierd said as he stood to leave, “your younger self would be proud of you.”

Cullen looked up at him curiously. “What would your younger self make of you, ser?”

Olgierd shook his head. “He’d think me soft. But he had some hard lessons ahead of him.”

He left Cullen behind with one last look at the closed tent. If he couldn’t speak to Ciri, he ought to find Triss. She’d organized mages before, during the pogroms in Novigrad. She might have some good ideas for how to get through this.

* * *

Ciri wandered the grounds of a great fortress. Its walls shifted and changed every time she looked away, first light and airy, then squat and gray, tall spires, exaggerated crenelations, straw roof, slate roof, brick walls, granite, wood, large then small then large again. In the corner of her eye, she thought she saw ghostly people, thought she heard faint whispers in Elven, Orlesian, Common, other unfamiliar languages.

“Welcome to the place where the sky was held back,” Avallac’h said, sweeping an arm in front of them grandly. “You aren’t far from here now.”

“Will you let me remember this?” Ciri asked. She stared up at the shifting glass window of the main building in admiration, watching as it changed from thick, smoky plates to delicate multi-colored artwork.

“The essentials,” Avallac’h allowed. “Ask your ‘tutor.’”

“Why would he know?”

Avallac’h favored her with a condescending smile. “He is a dreamer. He would live in the Fade if he could. I have no doubt that he knows the history of almost any ruin in Thedas.”

“There’s more to it than that,” Ciri pressed. “What is it?”

“Don’t be so hasty, _Zireael_ ,” Avallac’h said. “You’ve had a long day.”

Ciri looked at the grounds, watching as weeds became flowers, then an earthen training ring, then weeds again. “You said there were wolves at the door. Then Corypheus attacked with the Templars. Is that what you meant?”

“Is that what you think I meant?”

She shook her head slowly. “No. I think you were warning of danger from within. Weren’t you?”

Avallac’h’s smile grew sharp-edged with satisfaction. “Be on your guard, _Zireael_.” He plucked a weed, and it blossomed into a delicate, five-petaled white flower, then faded into a blade of grass.

“Who is it?” she asked. “Who would betray us?”

“I wonder,” he murmured. “The winds are shifting. Perhaps the _harellan_ will have a change of heart.”

“Solas hasn’t taught me that word,” she said. “What does it mean?”

“Your tether is stronger now,” he told her, changing the subject abruptly. “I am sorry.”

She looked down, discomfited by his gaze. A glint of something, a ghostly echo of a shackle around his ankle, caught her eye, and she looked up sharply. “Are you sure you don’t speak of yourself?”

He twitched his foot, and the chain faded from view. “Interesting. You shouldn’t be able to see that.” 

She disliked the speculative look in his eyes as he watched her. It felt far too much like the way the real Avallac’h had looked at her when she’d first appeared in Tir ná Lia. 

“I want to wake up now,” she told him, taking a step back.

“As you wish.”

* * *

Ciri woke up to low voices, a dull ache in her right shoulder, and a heavy, tingling feeling in her left palm. She sat up slowly, wincing, and stopped at the sight of the unfamiliar canvas walls. The thick wool blanket slipped from her legs off the bedroll to the cloth-covered ground, and the voices stopped. At her side, Owain blinked awake, yawning and stretching atop a tiny stool.

“How are you feeling?” he asked her, his voice a low, sleepy rumble.

“Ugh, sore." She sat up straight, crossing her legs in front of her. Someone had changed her out of her armor and into clean clothes, the warmest set she owned, and from the feel of her injuries, one of the healers had already treated her. "Evelyn and Maxwell?”

“Both fine,” he assured her. “Evelyn treated your injuries while you slept.”

“They do feel better than before,” she said, gingerly testing her shoulder’s range of motion. “The army hasn’t found us?”

“No, the avalanche stopped them cold.” His lips twitched at the unintended pun. “We’re deep in the Frostbacks somewhere. It’s safe for now, but we’ll need more food soon, and better shelter than a handful of tents and some carpets and wall hangings thrown over spears.”

“Sounds like there’s work to be done.” She winced again and stood carefully, then bent and lightly kissed his cheek. “Thank you for staying with me.”

“I was glad to,” he said, catching and holding her eyes. “Whenever I can’t stand with you, I’ll be sure to welcome you back.”

“You’re a good man, Owain Trevelyan.”

“I try to be,” he said simply.

He stood as well, and she had to back up a step as he went from chest height to towering over her. His broad hands drew her into a careful embrace, mindful of her healing injuries. She leaned into him for a long, quiet moment, wrapping her arms around his back.

“You honestly can’t imagine how relieved everyone was when you came back. How relieved I was,” he said.

She smiled up at him, slowly pulling back. “I keep my promises.”

“I’ll rest easier, then.” He sighed and let her go. “I should go check on the soldiers now that you’re awake. We’ll speak later?”

“Of course.”

He opened the flap and ducked his head and shoulders to step outside. Shivering, Ciri started to hunt around the tent for her boots, her toes freezing in her wool socks. A light cough caught her attention.

Tucked in the corner were two people she wasn’t particularly pleased to see. Revered Mother Giselle sat on a folded blanket, her habit mussed and stained, and Revered Mother Kordula, the Chantry emissary, sat beside her on a small stool, spots of blood spattered across the white front of her robe. Her borrowed mace hung from her narrow hips on an old leather belt.

“There is something you should know before you set foot outside that tent,” Revered Mother Kordula said. Her thick Nevarran accent only seemed to lend weight to her words.

Ciri paused reluctantly in her search for her boots. “What is it?”

“You must understand the appearance of the situation,” Mother Kordula said. At Ciri’s blank look, she sighed and turned to Mother Giselle.

Mother Giselle said gently, “The people saw you stand to defend them – and fall. And then return to them in a flash of light, triumphant. The enemy was overwhelming, and your actions are easily interpreted as miraculous. Your title begins to seem a worthy one, and our trials ordained.”

“Nonsense,” Ciri protested. “I ‘Fade-stepped.’”

“Also nonsense,” Mother Kordula dismissed with a soft snort, “but that is beside the point.”

Ciri took a deep breath, trying not to snap at them. “Then what is the point?”

“I was assigned to your Inquisition for many reasons,” Mother Kordula told her, “chief among them to verify whether the claims of your holiness had merit – an understandable concern given your poor choices where the rebels and apostates are concerned. You neither confirmed nor denied it when you met with Grand Cleric Oudine, and so we reserved judgment. But this latest act changes things.”

“No mage in Thedas has the power to do what you did, Your Worship,” said Mother Giselle. “The Maker blessed you with an extraordinary gift. You could be the herald of a new and brighter age...or the harbinger of a great and terrible fall.”

“It was _just_ a Fade step,” Ciri insisted. She had a terrible feeling the two revered mothers had planned out this conversation, and her suspicion grew stronger at the knowing look in Mother Kordula’s honey-brown eyes.

“I am an Anaxas, Your Worship,” Mother Kordula said, standing and brushing a crease from her blood-spattered robes. “Magic runs in my family. My cousin Viuus writes to me frequently. I am familiar with what is normal and what is not."

“Some would claim it is your Elvhen blood that allowed you to perform such a feat,” Mother Giselle said as she rose as well. “The Chantry, however, believes that your magic is a gift from the Maker.”

Mother Kordula picked up the thread. “Therein lies the problem of your continued denial of your holiness. You have two, perhaps three, miracles attached to your name, and the Chantry is tied to your fortunes. Further refutation will only damage the Chantry.”

“You want me to lie?” Ciri asked incredulously. _Am I not already telling too many?_

"I want you to think beyond yourself," Mother Kordula snapped. "The oldest and most venerable institution in Thedas depends on what you say and do going forward. Your petty fears –"

“Are _not_ unfounded!” Ciri hissed, backing up a step. “Your last prophet was burned alive at the stake!”

Mother Giselle picked up the blanket she’d been sitting on and draped it around Ciri’s shoulders. She spoke soothingly, the way Ciri did when Zephyr was riled. “Those were dark and barbarous times, Your Worship. Nothing of the sort will happen to you now.”

“You can’t make that promise.” Ciri backed away further, clutching the blanket. “If anyone asks me, I’ll still deny it, but I won’t volunteer my opinion. Just...leave me out of your plots.”

She looked around for her boots again and shoved her feet into them hastily, then pushed open the tent flap and left the scheming revered mothers behind. The frigid wind cut through her like a knife as soon as she left, and she shivered violently, pulling the blanket around herself more securely. She ducked her head and began to walk toward the largest tent she saw.

“It’s her!”

“It’s the Hand of the Maker!”

“Maker be praised, she’s awake!”

She jerked to a halt and looked around, wide-eyed, at the exclamations. A handful of people approached her slowly, reverently, their clothes still scorched and bloody, their skin bruised and bandaged. In the near distance, heads turned to see what the commotion was all about.

She vaguely recognized them. One served food at Flissa’s tavern. Another assisted Harritt in the smithy. Two were foot soldiers in the Inquisition army. A fifth was a scout she’d interacted with a few times – Donnel, she thought.

“Your Worship!” Donnel gasped, reaching out to her cautiously. “You did it – you stopped that fiend. You saved us.”

Her grandmother’s diplomacy and her mother’s eloquence failed her, leaving her fumbling for words in the face of their unnerving worshipful expressions. “I had help.”

“Yes,” agreed the smith’s assistant. “Just like Andraste with her disciples, you'll never stand alone.”

“I’m – that’s –” _Fuck_. “Excuse me,” she said firmly, spinning on her heel and stalking off through the snow.

A low alto voice began singing behind her, and as she walked away she glanced over her shoulder to see Mother Giselle walking slowly from the tent, Mother Kordula at her heels. The would-be worshipers fell silent as Mother Giselle’s voice grew louder.

“Shadows fall, and hope has fled.  
Steel your heart, the dawn will come.  
The night is long, and the path is dark,  
Look to the sky, for one day soon,  
The dawn will come.”

Ciri watched in dismay from a distance as more people began to join in. She looked to the large tent and saw Leliana and Cullen both raising their voices in song.

Then people began to fall to their knees, and her stomach lurched.

 _Holy Fire_ , she thought for the first time in over two months as the voices swelled in a triumphant chorus. _Enlighten, burn, and cleanse._ She hurried away, eager to escape.

Solas called out to her quietly from beside a tent as she passed by. “A word?”

She nodded and followed him up a slight rise away from the camp. His staff lit the way with a faint blue glow. It almost matched the deep indigo of the sky above, lightening to a soft azure toward the horizon. Dawn finally approached.

“The revered mothers are canny politicians,” he said as the camp’s noises faded into the distance. “It takes great skill to turn a moment of despair into one of hope. You should take heed of how they do it. It’s a skill worth cultivating.”

“I fear what they wish to turn me into,” Ciri confessed. “I’m not holy; I’m not even Andrastian. Yet they’d hang the fate of their Chantry around my neck. I can’t be that for them. I _won’t_.”

She almost pitied Oudine, trying to hold on to the remaining grand clerics while claiming Ciri was the Maker’s Hand. Every choice Ciri made only seemed to divide them further.

“They are desperate, _lethallin_ ,” Solas said. “Every day they lose more influence and power, and the pragmatic among them look to you not as a holy icon, but as a way to save the Chantry from failing.”

“Maybe it should fail,” Ciri muttered.

“You would not be the first to suggest so,” Solas said. He looked at her curiously, changing the subject. “What happened after you sent us away? I looked back as the dragon descended, but feared to linger.”

“It blew fire on a crate of explosives,” Ciri said. Her back twinged at the memory. “I lost _Zireael_ , my steel sword, when I went flying.”

“My condolences,” Solas said. “I know it held great importance to you. But better your sword than your life.”

The Witcher in her agreed. The girl who’d survived horrors with that sword at her side didn’t want to. “I know,” she said reluctantly. “It just held a lot of memories.”

“Go on,” Solas prompted her. “What happened then?”

“The Elder One appeared. He looked like a man, but twisted, monstrous – inhumanly tall and skeletal, with blackened claws for fingers and bits of red lyrium sticking out of his skull, and his breastplate was fused to his ribcage.” Ciri shuddered. “He claimed to be one of the magisters that breached the Golden City from the Chantry tales. One of the ones that caused the Blight. He called himself Corypheus.”

Solas looked her up and down swiftly. “Did the healers notice anything amiss? Did he do anything to you?”

Ciri detached her marked hand from its stranglehold on the blanket and held it out to him. It shone brightly in the faint blue light of the pre-dawn sky. “He tried to remove it using an orb of some sort. It had these fine, curved lines all over it, almost like a fingerprint.”

“What happened?”

“It felt like it buried a hook in the mark,” she said, “and then yanked. It was...” She grimaced and flexed her hand. “Agonizing. He called it an anchor. He said it was permanent, that I’d spoilt it through ‘clumsy flailing.’ But it feels like he did something to it by trying to take it. My hand felt like a lead weight when I Fade-stepped to the camp.”

“An anchor?” Solas echoed. “It is an apt description. And it’s proven useful many times over. We shall have to find a way to keep it from interfering with your magic.”

“The sooner the better,” Ciri agreed.

“But there is a problem beyond that, _lethallin_. This orb you saw, you’re sure of its pattern? What of its make, its size?”

“Metal,” Ciri said, “though I’m not sure what type. An alloy of some sort. And it was about the size of four of my fists held together.”

Solas nodded, as if her words confirmed his worst suspicions. “It is an artifact of our people, one of immense power. He must have wielded it when he created the Breach.”

“What is it, exactly?” Ciri asked.

“A magical focus,” Solas explained. “Such orbs were used by Elvhen mages to channel power from the gods. They were dedicated to specific members of our pantheon. All that remains are faint memories in the Fade, and paintings in old ruins. Or so I was led to believe.”

Ciri had known that the Elvhen were powerful mages, but the thought of that small metal ball being capable of causing so much damage in the wrong hands made her shudder again. “Which orb do you think he carries? And how did he get his hands on it?”

“It’s impossible to know.” Solas frowned. “Should the humans learn of this –”

“They mustn’t,” Ciri interrupted. “The humans would turn on elves as a scapegoat. The Chantry would cut its losses, then come for me. And then we’d never bring Corypheus to justice.”

“That has always been the way of things,” Solas agreed. “We must keep this to ourselves.”

Ciri hesitated. “Triss and Olgierd know how to keep secrets. And they have no fondness for the Chantry.”

Solas contemplated her, and she returned his gaze steadily. Finally, he nodded. "They do seem to be cut from a different cloth than most humans. Even from most mages. If you believe them trustworthy, then I will follow your lead.”

“I’ll tell them later,” she said, glancing over her shoulder at the camp behind them. “When there aren’t so many ears to listen in.”

“Wise of you,” Solas said. He shook his head as if dismissing the conversation. "At any rate, did you have any questions?"

She bit her lip and looked back at the camp, spying a ragged, wide-brimmed hat off in the distance. “What Cole said at the gates,” she began cautiously.

“That you aren’t from here?” Solas shook his head. “I have a suspicion that Cole is more than he seems. His perception of the world is different than the average person’s. No doubt he was referring to your Elvhen blood.”

He sounded convinced. She looked up at his face and read nothing but complete assurance.

“You’re probably right,” she agreed, feeling a familiar sting of guilt.

“Was there anything else?”

A name, half-remembered, came to her, and with the name came strange images that didn’t quite make sense. “Yes,” she said slowly. “Is there a fortress in these mountains? Somewhere the sky was held? I think I must have dreamt it, all of it at once, every instance it’s ever been occupied. I remember it being lovely and graceful, but also grim and sturdy.”

He looked at her sharply. “There is, yes. Skyhold. It’s several days’ journey to the north. I saw it in the Fade not too long ago. It has been abandoned for over a century, claimed and abandoned and claimed again. Your dreams serve you well.”

“Will you help me find it?” she asked.

“I will provide directions, but you should lead them,” he said. “The Inquisition looks to you for leadership. Be their guide, their lodestar. Right now, they have nothing. _You_ will deliver them to a mighty fortress.”

That didn’t sound much different than what the revered mothers wanted from her, but Solas had yet to steer her wrong.

“I never set out to become anyone’s god,” she said plaintively.

He smiled, his eyes full of sympathy. “Believe me, _lethallin_. Hardly anyone does.”

She hitched her blanket higher and looked to the soft light of the horizon. “We’d best get started.”


	28. Keeps and Conversations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They arrive at Skyhold. Ciri learns of the events at Therinfal from Cole. The visitors from the Continent have an overdue conversation with the advisors.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> beta-read by brightspot149. Thank you!

“It’s incredible,” Ciri said as Skyhold unfolded in the distance before them.

Solas smiled faintly, a glint of what looked like pride in his eyes. “I’d imagine anything would be welcome after two weeks wandering the mountains. But it is something to behold.”

Its strong, square towers and heavy crenellations reminded her of Kaer Morhen in a way. It sat the same lonely vigil along a mountain, too, just as the Witchers’ keep did in Kaedwen. From this distance, it didn’t seem quite so damaged as Kaer Morhen, but she braced for the worst. If Solas said it had been abandoned for a century or more, then time and the elements had surely taken their toll.

Olgierd clapped her on the shoulder. She turned to grin up at him. Her poor friend looked quite unkempt as of late, with thick red stubble on the sides of his head and a beard and mustache in dire need of trimming. “Well done,” he said warmly. “It’s a fine fortress.”

“I still have a bottle of Sepremento tucked away,” Ciri said. “We should break it out once we get there. Solas, you should join us this time.”

Solas inclined his head in agreement. “Save it for when we have good food to savor it with. I’ll gladly join you then.”

Olgierd cast his gaze down the steep mountainside and out to the long stone bridge leading to Skyhold. “I’ll let the advisors know it’s time to move out.”

“Say hello to Josephine for us,” Ciri teased him.

“The cheek on you,” he said, laughing. “Teach me to never say never, I suppose.”

“I’m happy for you,” she said sincerely.

His broad smile shrank and softened into something gentle and private. “As am I.”

“I should go with you.” Triss leaned on her staff as she, too, took in the magnificent view. “Fiona, ‘Madame de Fer,’ and Letia will want to organize the mages for the walk across the bridge. I’m sure they have some sort of protocol in mind for who gets to go first.”

"I don't envy you their company," Ciri told her. The three mages were tolerable enough on their own but together were a strain on her nerves. They were masters of arch, polite bickering, each of them as proud and forceful as Sheala de Tancarville or Philippa Eilhart.

“I’ve had experience with their type,” Triss said with a wry smile. “Besides, they think they’ve taken me under their wing.”

Ciri understood this game, and Triss played it deftly. The enchanters thought that direct influence over the wayward young apprentice would give them indirect influence over Ciri. Triss expertly played up her youthful looks and inexperience with Thedosian magic, never lingering too long with one mage or the other. The more she could learn of their magic and the state of mage politics, the more she could help them – and the more she could help Ciri and the Inquisition.

Ciri had already half-jokingly warned Triss not to suggest starting a Lodge to Vivienne or Fiona. Thedas had enough problems without adding a Lodge of Sorceresses into the mix. Triss, to her relief, had taken no offense, merely saying that the mages had their hands full with their fraternities.

“Come on, Merigold,” Olgierd said, turning and heading back to the waiting caravan. “Time is wasting.”

“Right behind you.”

The two redheads strode away up the slope, leaving Ciri alone with Solas. She looked out at the great stone fortress again and smiled. Finally. By night's end, they'd have walls around them. A thought struck her and she looked up at Solas.

“Who would even build a keep all the way out here in the middle of nowhere?”

“The answer to that is one even the Fade has forgotten,” Solas replied. “Even its original name has lost its meaning. ‘ _Tarasyl’an Te’las,_ ’ the place where the sky was held back. Poetic, but whatever the original owners intended by it has been lost to time.”

“It was Elvhen?” Ciri asked, and Solas nodded. “Then – would they mind the Inquisition’s presence? Mind me?”

“The religious army might give them pause,” Solas said dryly. “But of all the successive claimants to Skyhold, I suspect _you_ might be the only one they’d find worthy of it.”

She still wasn’t sure how she felt about the ancient Elvhen of Thedas. Her brush with a mind-altering amount of power left her questioning the sort of people the long-extinct mages might have been. She thought with no small amount of relief that at least she didn’t have to deal with one of them on top of all the other problems she faced.

“Let’s go down,” she said as the faint sound of voices and a great many footsteps reached her ears. “They’re on their way.”

Solas gestured at the steep path before them. “After you, _lethallin_.”

* * *

Ciri passed off the last of the crates to the waiting soldier and stopped to stretch her sore back. With the third of the carts from the Trevelyan estate unloaded, the quartermaster could finally start distributing supplies as needed. Under Cullen, Owain, and Fiona’s direction, the bulk of the surviving army and most of the mages had set up camp along the river below Skyhold, with the healers and their patients arrayed in the lower courtyard.

She flexed her marked hand absently as she looked around at the high, crumbling walls. Whatever it had been originally, she doubted it looked anything like the sturdy gray fortress that surrounded her now. The outer walls were heavily damaged in places, almost as badly as Kaer Morhen, but it had good bones. The Inquisition could use their connections to gain access to a quarry, and skilled workers could be had with the Chantry’s coin.

She shook out her hand again. It felt even stranger these last two weeks, ever since Corypheus had used the orb to tear at the mark. Her palm prickled constantly, an irritating pins and needles sensation of numbness giving way to near-painful sensitivity. And each trip to the Trevelyan estate for supplies and feed for the horses had felt – not difficult, but like her hand had become progressively heavier, clay to iron to lead, an anchor against the current.

“We can take it from here, Your Worship,” the soldier said, hefting the crate in her arms. “You’ve surely more important things to do than help us unload.”

Ciri wasn't sure she did. Everyone seemed to have everything well in hand. Still, she wandered off to find some way to occupy herself. She had a vague idea of where her companions were. Varric had disappeared with one of Leliana's ravens. The Iron Bull was overseeing the Chargers as they cleared rubble from one of the damaged buildings on the grounds. Blackwall was on the battlements examining the fortifications.

Sera had been tense and agitated in Haven’s aftermath, but a quiet, frank conversation had eased her fears. She was off with the scouts somewhere, helping to erect tents for temporary shelters until the buildings were deemed safe. Dorian was helping Flissa and her workers stock the kitchens. Triss was with Fiona, Olgierd with Owain and the soldiers, Evelyn with the healers. Josephine and Maxwell were occupied with reams of paperwork and letter-writing at a desk set up in one of the few stable areas in the main hall.

That left Cassandra, Vivienne, and Solas unaccounted for. Ciri headed down the short flight of stone steps to the lower courtyard in search of Evelyn. She’d likely know where to find her tutor or Enchanter Vivienne.

She stepped out into a quiet, vehement argument taking place not far from Commander Cullen’s ‘desk’ of a board across two barrels. He seemed to be doing his best to ignore the quarrel, accepting missives from scouts and looking over supply lists. As the quarrelers’ voices raised, he shook his head and looked up to meet Ciri’s eyes wearily.

“What’s this about?” she asked him quietly, indicating the way Vivienne and Solas were practically nose to nose in hissing argument, with Cassandra and Chancellor Roderick chiming in to support the First Enchanter whenever Solas took a breath.

Cullen grimaced. "The boy, Cole. Solas says he's no mage, but a spirit. Apparently, he's been using his powers to make people forget him or to go unseen. Enchanter Vivienne says he's a demon and needs to be banished or otherwise done away with. Cassandra and the Chancellor fear what the Chantry might think if we welcome a spirit into our midst."

Ciri looked beyond Vivienne and Solas to the makeshift infirmary where the healers tended the wounded. She spied Mihris making her way methodically between the bedrolls, a boy in an oversized, floppy hat following in her wake like a puppy. Despite the seriousness of the situation, she smiled a little at the odd sight.

“And what do you think of Cole, Commander?”

“I think I know enough to say I can’t make a judgment one way or another,” Cullen said honestly. “Demons are dangerous, Lady Ciri, and there is always a chance that even the most benign spirit can turn on you. But he sought us out of his own accord for no other reason than to help, and I have to wonder why.”

She shot him an incredulous look. “You’re suggesting I ask a spirit his intentions? _You_?”

“Yes, me.” He looked down at the missives on his improvised desk, radiating discomfort. “I’ve had time to think things over. Hewing to Chantry guidelines where magic is concerned has done the Inquisition no favors. While I may personally believe Cole has the capacity to be dangerous, I will accept your judgment if you rule otherwise.”

His hand trembled minutely as he picked up the topmost piece of parchment, and Ciri spotted an empty potion bottle half-buried beneath another stack. Evelyn had been by recently.

“I’ll do that, then,” she told him.

He nodded distractedly. “I’ll be here if you need me.”

She walked over to Solas and Vivienne, interposing herself between them as Vivienne acidly said, “It’s clear, my dear, that you’ve never been properly educated on the true nature of spirits, or you wouldn’t be so quick to try to turn this one into a pet. You can’t house-break them.”

“Enough!” Ciri interrupted as Solas opened his mouth to retort, his eyes flashing. “There are people recuperating not thirty feet from you. Commander Cullen is attempting to work. _Stop_.”

Chancellor Roderick looked mildly abashed. “This did get out of hand, I suppose. But now that you’re here, perhaps you can settle the matter for us.”

“What is there to settle?” Vivienne asked impatiently. “That thing is a demon. Whatever motives it had for helping earlier, it won’t remain so well-disposed. Make it leave, Lady Hand, for everyone’s sake.”

“Thank you, Vivienne,” Ciri said. She turned to Solas. “And what do you think of Cole?”

“I find him intriguing,” Solas admitted. “Most spirits appear strange, even monstrous, to our eyes. Yet Cole has the form of a young man.”

“Is it possession?”

“No,” Solas said. “He is possessing nothing and no one. For him to retain this form, and to still have a sense of self and purpose, leads me to believe he has been on this side of the Veil since before the creation of the Breach. Months, even years.”

Ciri nodded. “And you, Chancellor? Cassandra?”

“The Maker’s first children are jealous ones,” Chancellor Roderick warned. “There will always be a danger with allowing this spirit to remain, no matter what its intentions are. Moreover, the Grand Clerics have already resorted to sending a spy into our organization, no matter how prettily they’ve dressed it up. We must not be too controversial.”

“Or at least, no more controversial than we already are,” Cassandra said. “I dislike this, Lady Ciri. Demons are unpredictable and dangerous. But I have promised to follow your lead.”

Ciri looked out to the healers’ area again and easily spotted Cole among the handful of healers. He knelt beside a wounded soldier, holding a cup to his lips. “Yes, he seems terrifying,” she said dryly. “I assume after he’s done menacing the patients with tender care, he’ll subject the rest of us to check-ups and admonishments to eat our vegetables.”

Vivienne pursed her lips in disapproval. “This is no laughing matter,” she snapped. “That thing has no business being here.”

“That ‘thing’ can speak for himself,” Solas shot back.

“No,” Ciri interrupted. “We’re not doing this again. I’m going to go speak to Cole – _alone_ – and I’ll see what he has to say. And that will be the end of it.”

Cole got to his feet awkwardly as she approached. He brought to mind a half-grown puppy, all long limbs and big eyes, or an animated and particularly ungainly scarecrow. It was an amusing sight. But she couldn’t entirely discount the possibility that Vivienne was right, no matter how unassuming he looked. Bruxae looked delicate and harmless at first glance but were among the most fearsome monsters she'd faced. _Then again_ , she thought, _if he can think, he can likely be reasoned with._

“They said I could help,” Cole said, a note of anxiety in his voice. His fingers tightened around the empty cup. He spoke with Evelyn’s crisp Ostwick tones. “‘Listen to the wounded, Cole, tell us when their pain gets worse. Bring them water. Thank you, that’s very helpful.’” His voice shifted and took on Mihris’ lilting accent. “‘Put that knife away, boy, no one dies here today.’”

Ciri’s hand strayed to her dagger. “Did you try to kill one of the patients?”

Cole fidgeted. “‘Every breath a struggle, dagger in my chest. It hurts, it _hurts_ , make it stop, please make it stop’ –” He showed her the empty cup. “I gave him water. It didn’t help. He wants to die.”

“Mihris is right, Cole,” she said, forcing her hand away from her dagger. “You need to trust that the healers know what they’re doing. Killing their patients isn’t helpful.”

“I won’t,” he said, pale eyes wide and fixed on her face. “I want to help.”

“Is that why you came to Haven? To help?”

“Yes. The Elder One gave the Templars to Envy, and he turned them, twisted them, broke them to build them back up in his image.” He looked past Ciri at Cullen and the others. “The song they sing is painful now. He hurt them to hurt you. I had to help.”

Ciri wasn’t sure how to begin making sense of that. “Is Envy a demon?”

“Envy wore a face they trusted, so they let it in,” Cole said. “Corruption spread like sickness.”

“I’ll take that as a yes.” She’d have to send people to investigate at once. “And now that you’ve warned us, what do you want to do to help?”

“Listen,” Cole said. “Find the hurts and fix them. The pain gets tangled up inside. I find the knot and untie it, tug it free. They’re able to heal.”

“You listen to people's thoughts?" Ciri remembered a moment in the chantry and took a half-step back. "You listened to my thoughts back in Haven – you spoke in Elder Speech."

“Elder Speech, the speech of elves,” Cole said. He cocked his head quizzically. “But not Elven. Sorry. You’re...very bright. Things come through, but you’re hard to hear. _Zireael_ , Lion Cub. You’re a long way from home, little ugly one.”

“Don’t call me that – don’t call me any of those. And don’t repeat that to anyone.”

“Sorry,” Cole said again.

Ciri lowered her voice, looking past him at the prone patients and the roving healers. “Did you say anything to anyone else about me?”

“Solas asked me,” Cole said, matching her tone. “‘Elder Blood,’ Lara’s legacy. He thinks it means something else. It made him happy, so I didn’t explain.”

“No,” Ciri said. “He didn’t want to know.”

“‘It would be a kindness,’” Cole agreed in Solas’ gentle accent.

“How did you – never mind.” Ciri shook her head, changing the subject. “Commander Cullen tells me you can hide from people, make them forget you exist. Is that true?”

Cole nodded.

“If I let you stay, will you hide from the Chantry officials? From Revered Mother Kordula and Revered Mother Giselle? And the rest of them?”

“I can,” he said. “Should I hide from Chancellor Roderick?”

“No, he’s a member of the Inquisition.”

“The Inquisition, Justinia’s last edict,” he said. “He follows where she led.”

“Exactly.”

“So I can stay?”

“You can,” she said, “so long as you keep people’s secrets to yourself. People value their privacy, Cole.”

“Like –” He shut his mouth, blinking rapidly. “Oh.”

She patted him on the shoulder. “Just like that. Keep up the good work.”

She walked back to Solas and Vivienne. “I see it’s still there,” Vivienne said curtly.

“For now,” Ciri said. “He seems to be driven by a desire to help. We’ll let him, but we’ll keep an eye on him. The Chantry is not to know of this. He’s agreed to keep out of their sight.”

“And when it inevitably turns on us?” Vivienne asked.

“Should that happen, he’s surrounded by an army of mages and former Templars,” Ciri told her. “He won’t get far. But I won’t stand for him being provoked into doing so.” She met everyone’s eyes squarely, waiting for their nods of understanding. “Good.”

She left them behind, stopping by Cullen’s desk and lowering her voice. “We have a problem.”

He looked up from his paperwork immediately. “Where?”

“Therinfal Redoubt. Cole said a demon took command of the Templars and fed them red lyrium, that it wore the face of someone they trusted.”

“Maker’s breath! Could that be Samson?” He glared at his paperwork and sighed in frustration. "No. Samson was no one important back in Kirkwall. It would have to be one of the Knights-Vigilant or one of the captains. How Samson became so powerful is beyond me."

“He didn’t say,” Ciri told him. “Cole’s way of speaking is a bit opaque. But I’d suggest sending the Bull’s Chargers to investigate at once, along with a Templar or two, perhaps a healer. There may be Templars left who survived whatever happened there.”

“Raúl de Medina is an obvious choice,” Cullen considered. “Rona Fisher has been unwilling to have much to do with the Order lately, but they work well together. I’ll send them both, and have the Iron Bull pull his men off the work crews.”

“The sooner the better,” Ciri agreed.

Cullen caught her by the elbow as she began to leave. “Thank you for this. I’d hate to leave anyone at the mercy of a demon.”

“We’ll figure this out, Commander,” Ciri said with an assurance she didn’t quite feel.

He let her go, and she wandered off again, in search of something else to do.

* * *

Ciri descended the dusty steps and opened the small door leading into the throne room. After a long, grueling week of labor, half the buildings had been cleared for living and working, and Leliana and Josephine had designated the spacious room at the top of the main hall as her quarters. It held nothing in the way of furniture yet, but it provided shelter and privacy, both things she’d been lacking in for weeks.

Despite the Inquisition’s military hierarchy, the advisors and her companions were given priority in choosing their rooms before the others. Triss and Olgierd chose small, private rooms overlooking the badly overgrown garden behind the main hall. Solas had to be coaxed into taking a room with an actual bed instead of simply camping in the rotunda. And Vivienne’s attempt to commandeer the balcony overlooking the main hall was deftly redirected to the second largest of the rooms running along the outside of the garden.

She eyed the cobweb-covered throne at the end of the hall with a sinking feeling. Somehow, she'd end up sitting in it. She just knew it.

She’d almost reconciled to the idea of leading the Inquisition. She’d been doing the work for months. But the sight of a throne stirred up feelings she’d thought she’d dealt with long ago. Witcher or not, she'd been raised as Queen Calanthe's heir. She remembered her grandparents' lessons on statecraft and leadership. But that was for a different time and a different throne. She served people differently now, hunting monsters and ridding villages of graveirs and wraiths.

Cintra was lost to her forever, and she'd faked her own death rather than let the plots of the great and powerful succeed at turning her into a broodmare for Tankred or Emhyr. Her destiny lay on the Path, with Zephyr and her silver sword as her closest companions. That cobwebbed throne was a trap, and she could feel its iron jaws slowly closing around her.

It was past time to tell the advisors, before the jaws snapped shut. She’d failed to do so in Haven, having been rushed off to the Storm Coast on a month’s journey there and back, then failed again in the brief frenetic days before closing the Breach. There’d been no good time to pull Cassandra or Josephine aside on the trek to Skyhold. And they hadn’t been able to stop to even think this past week.

With luck, she’d get through the coming conversation with her skin intact – and without another unwanted title.

She was so lost in contemplation that she missed Triss coming to join her, and her friend had to call her name to get her attention.

Ciri turned away from the throne. “Are they all in the new War Room?”

“Yes.” Triss hesitated, unable to hide her worry. “Ciri – this is a terrible idea.”

“Olgierd wants to be honest with Josephine, and I understand his reasons.” She agreed, even. She hadn’t intentionally set out to hide her full background from the Trevelyans, but somehow keeping her origins from Owain brought a prickle of guilt lately, like she was doing something wrong.

“That’s fine, but the others?” Triss pressed.

“In that future Alexius threw me into, Cassandra knew the truth. She asked me to tell her when I returned, and I neglected to. There’s never going to be a right time to tell them. Now, when they’re filled with goodwill toward us, is as good a time as we’ll ever get.”

Ciri started walking toward the side door that led to Josephine’s new office, and the new War Room beyond that, and Triss fell into step beside her.

“Their church –”

“Their _Chantry_ ,” Ciri emphasized, “is not invited to this discussion. I’m aware of the risks, Triss. They need us, need me, more than we need them. And they know it. I’ll swear them to secrecy.”

“Secrets,” Triss said ominously, “almost never stay that way when you involve this many people.”

“Then we shouldn't be counting on the entire Trevelyan household to hold their tongues, nor the mages we sent through the portal." Ciri sighed and opened the door, lowering her voice as they walked on. "We're standing on shifting sand and we all three know it. The best way to manage this is –"

“A controlled release of information?” Triss interrupted.

“Precisely.”

“I reserve the right to say ‘I told you so’ if this goes wrong.”

Ciri stopped. “You don’t have to stay if you’re that worried. The Markham mages are safely away on the Continent. The mage rebellion is free of the Venatori and allied with the Inquisition. We’ve accomplished what you wanted to do. And I’m sure King Tankred is missing his advisor.”

Triss sighed and gave her a regretful look, reaching out and tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “I failed you once when you needed me most. I put the Lodge ahead of you, ahead of Yennefer and Geralt. I couldn’t live with myself if I left you here alone.”

“But?”

“But nothing. We’ll do this your way. And if they try to harm you, I’ll make sure they live just long enough to wish they hadn’t.”

They found Olgierd lingering outside the door to the War Room. He acknowledged them with a short nod. He still hadn’t gotten his hands on a razor or scissors. Such items were in short supply around the Inquisition these days.

“Shall we?” he asked. He drummed his fingers on the hilt of his saber – a nervous beat, and the only tell that he was more worried than he appeared.

"No point putting it off any longer," Ciri said and opened the door.

The advisors looked up from the table as she entered. Pleasant smiles quickly turned to puzzled frowns as Olgierd and Triss followed her in.

“Lady Ciri,” Cullen greeted her. “May I ask why you had us called away from our duties? We aren’t scheduled to meet until later this afternoon.”

“Yes, I have a small event planned in the courtyard in a few hours,” Josephine said. “Will this take very long?” She scribbled a note at the bottom of the page on her clipboard, then looked up again.

Leliana studied them silently for a long moment, her sharp eyes roving from face to face. “I’m sorry, Josie,” she said finally. “Unless I miss my mark, I think our announcement of the new Inquisitor will have to be delayed.”

 _They were what?_ “Were you intending to lure me out into the courtyard and spring it on me in front of an audience so I couldn’t say no?” Ciri asked.

“Essentially,” Leliana said with a small shrug. “We were under the impression you had spoken positively about accepting the role to the Iron Bull. Perhaps we didn’t need to be underhanded, but the people need a show after what they suffered.”

Ciri raised her eyebrows. “You have ears everywhere, spymaster.” She’d been certain the only people around to hear that conversation were Krem and the Iron Bull himself.

“That is my job. Now, what brings us here today?”

Ciri looked around the room at the advisors. Josephine appeared curious, while Cullen and Cassandra seemed mildly impatient. Chancellor Roderick struck her as politely attentive, and Leliana nearly unreadable.

“This mustn’t leave the room,” she said, gravely serious. “I want your word that what you learn here today, you never speak of to anyone. Especially not to the Chantry.”

Josephine set down her paperwork. “Is it so consequential?”

“Could be, if we’re not careful,” Olgierd told her. He gave her a small half-smile. “But I wish to be honest with you.”

“Cassandra, in that future Dorian and I averted, you asked me to tell you where we came from,” Ciri said. “I’m sorry I delayed, but I’m ready to tell you now.”

“I shouldn’t be here for this,” Chancellor Roderick said abruptly. He raised a hand to the bridge of his nose and pinched it, his eyes closed. “No, I think it’s best I leave.”

“Chancellor?” Cassandra said, reaching out.

“Someday, quite possibly in the near future, a new Divine will be called,” Chancellor Roderick said. He opened his eyes again, looking resigned. “She will ask for a full account of my time with the Inquisition, and I will be obliged to tell her everything. I’m sorry, Lady Ciri, but I think my time as your advisor has come to an end.”

“If you must leave for now, then I’ll accept that, and even thank you for your integrity,” Ciri said. “But I do hope to have you back, Chancellor. I’d prefer you over Mother Kordula any day.”

“It's something to consider," Chancellor Roderick said and excused himself quietly.

Once the door was firmly shut behind him, Leliana walked slowly out from behind the enormous carved wooden table that dominated the room, trailing her fingers along the edge. It had been there when they’d arrived, a relic of Skyhold’s last inhabitants, with a detailed map of the continent burned into its surface. As Leliana stalked its circumference, she pinned Ciri in place with her intent gaze.

“Those rumors...” she mused aloud. “What a fine bit of misdirection that was. Get everyone looking in different places, each one wilder than the last, and no one would question it when you finally confirmed that the truth was rather dull in comparison. A knight and an apostate. Not interesting enough to look too deeply into.”

“I told you the truth from the start,” Ciri said sharply. “Just...not the whole of it.”

“Then tell us now,” Leliana said, “and spare no detail.”

“It will sound absurd,” she warned her.

“One of the Magisters Sidereal walks the world again, and you traveled through time a little over a month ago,” Leliana countered. “Absurd is relative.”

“Your word, first,” Ciri insisted.

“You have it,” Josephine agreed at once. The others were quick to follow suit.

Triss put her hand on Ciri’s arm and stepped forward. “We’re from another world.”

“You’re – _pardon_?” Cullen sputtered.

Cassandra snorted. “Preposterous. If this is a joke, it’s a poor one.”

“You mean from the lands across the ocean, no?” Leliana said. “This is just a figure of speech.”

“Olgierd?” Josephine asked quietly.

He hesitated, then nodded. “You found no trace of us for good reason,” he said, equally quiet. “We’d not set foot in Thedas before mid-August.”

“But you can’t be!” Cassandra protested. “You aren’t spirits! We have evidence. There is the Fade, and there is the physical world. You can’t come from _beyond_ that.”

Ciri was beginning to regret this already. She suspected this would be a headache and a half.

Triss stretched out her hand and gave a sharp twist of her wrist, a commanding, beckoning gesture. The air over the table rippled, and suddenly a platter over-laden with ripe summer fruit lay there, glistening with morning dew as if freshly picked from the orchard. Peaches, plums, apricots, nectarines, and cherries, all giving off a ripe, luscious scent.

“Can your mages do that?” Triss asked, crossing her arms.

Cullen’s sword hand twitched as Josephine reached out to pluck a nectarine from the platter.

“Careful,” Olgierd warned her, smiling slightly. “It’s an illusion.”

“But how is this possible?” Josephine asked. She held it up, eyes bright with curiosity. “An illusion wouldn’t have scent or weight. If I ate it, would it have flavor?”

“It would taste like the best nectarine you’d ever had,” Triss said. “But it’s only magic. It’s not real food.”

Cassandra made a strangled protest, but Josephine took a tiny, tentative nibble and smiled.

“It’s marvelous.”

“You have our attention,” Leliana said coolly. “Another world. Why come here?”

Ciri took a steadying breath and began to speak. It had been easier to explain to Dorian. He’d seen the oddities in the future, overheard things that couldn’t be brushed aside. Moreover, he was a mage and a scholar. Still, she did her best. She began with the concept of portals and immediately diverted onto another tangent, then another, as Leliana and Josephine interrupted with frequent questions. Cullen watched with a frown that grew steadily darker the longer she spoke. And Cassandra seemed entirely resistant to the idea of a world beyond what she knew.

“It just can’t be possible,” Cassandra said for the third time after Ciri explained the circumstances that brought them to Thedas _yet again_.

Cullen finally spoke up, still frowning heavily. “No, Cassandra. I believe it.” He shook his head, glaring at Triss. “It made no sense for Ser Rylen to suddenly start forgetting people entirely. And Serah Merigold is far too skilled to be a simple runaway apprentice. The only reason we believed it is because Ser Owain and Ser Raúl supported her story. A mage of Thedas wouldn’t claim to belong to a Circle they’d never been to. The story would fall apart too easily.”

He laughed bitterly. “And now I can’t even tell Rylen – my _friend_ – that he’s perfectly sane and he quit taking lyrium for no reason. Do you have any idea what you did to him?”

“Don’t blame Ciri or Olgierd for the story Lord and Lady Trevelyan and I came up with,” Triss said at once. “They didn’t know what we were planning when I arrived in Haven.”

“I don’t,” Cullen said. “I blame you and the ones who helped you sell the lie. Damn it all.” He turned and smacked the table with a muttered curse, his shoulders tense with anger.

Leliana ignored Cullen’s ire. “Who are you really, Triss Merigold?”

“Court sorceress and magical advisor to King Tankred of Kovir and Poviss,” Triss said proudly. “A founding member of the Lodge of Sorceresses, leader of the mage underground in Novigrad, and graduate of the magical academy of Aretuza.”

“Older than you look, indeed,” Leliana murmured. She turned her eyes to Olgierd. “And you?”

He made a face that was neither a smile nor a frown – a strange, self-deprecating twist of his lips. “Truly a noble. Truly widowed. Truly the last of my family.” He paused, then added, “The rest is for Josephine’s ears alone.”

Josephine mustered a small smile for him. “I will listen to whatever you have to say.”

“And you, ‘Lady Hand’?” Leliana asked. “You called yourself a Witcher, a monster hunter for coin. You say your adoptive parents are themselves a Witcher and a sorceress. You confirmed Maxwell Trevelyan’s most outlandish rumor of Elvhen blood, yet that cannot be possible if you’re of a different world. How can that be?”

“We suspect the ancient elves of Thedas share an origin with the Aen Seidhe and Aen Elle of the Continent and Tir ná Lia, but we can’t be certain,” Ciri said. “My ancestor, Lara Dorren, was one of the Aen Elle. Her magic was exceptionally strong, but –”

“Unpredictable,” Leliana finished. “You said as much before. So your Fade step...”

“It’s no Fade step. I could travel home in the blink of an eye if I wanted to,” Ciri said. “Stepping from one world to another is as easy to me as walking from one room to the next is for you.”

"With the Chantry breathing down your neck and the assassination attempt in Val Royeaux, why didn't you leave?" Cullen asked, looking back around again.

Ciri clenched her marked hand reflexively. “I stayed because I saw the Breach and knew I could help. You needed this mark, this anchor. I couldn’t walk away.”

“Admirable,” Leliana said, narrowing her eyes. “And unusual. Not many people would take on such a burden willingly.”

“I was raised well,” Ciri said. “By a great many people.”

Leliana looked unimpressed at her non-answer.

“I want proof,” Cassandra said. She crossed her arms and frowned deeply at Ciri. “Take me to this Continent of yours. Introduce me to your Witcher father. I want to see it for my own eyes.”

“And if I do?” Ciri asked. “What then?”

“Then I accept that the Maker is far greater than I imagined,” Cassandra said simply. “That Andraste in Her infinite love gave the Trevelyans the idea to ask for help from another world, where His Hand would be called across the Void to serve Him here.”

“That’s essentially what you said in the future,” Ciri said.

“And for good reason,” Leliana said. She looked reassured by Cassandra’s words. “We must put our faith in the Maker, Lady Ciri. Surely you, too, are a part of His plan.”

“I can accept that,” Cullen said reluctantly. “It certainly helps that Lady Ciri and Olgierd have been staunch allies, and have given much of themselves to our cause. And you, Serah Merigold.”

“We appreciate your candor, of course,” Josephine said. “Maker, I’ll have to make your backgrounds airtight! No one can find out – imagine the panic that would ensue. The Chantry would assume you were spirits and demand your heads over this.”

"Thank you," Ciri said with feeling. She held out an arm to Cassandra. "We can go now if you like. It should only take an hour or two to show you around."

“Very well,” Cassandra agreed. She reached for Ciri’s arm and wrapped her strong, callused hand around her bicep with a firm grip.

Ciri smiled a little. Despite the circumstances, it would be good to see Geralt and Yennefer again – so long as they didn’t insist on involving themselves in the dangers she faced. Her marked hand a leaden weight at her side, Ciri pulled on her magic, drawing herself and Cassandra through the ether and out into the sunny courtyard of Corvo Bianco.

All thoughts of her family fled. Her legs dropped out from under her as she collapsed to the flagstones screaming in pain, her marked hand flaring like a miniature sun.


	29. Confessions and Misfortune

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Olgierd shares his past with Josephine. Ciri discovers a painful truth behind the anchor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beta-read by brightspot149. Thank you!

Ciri and Cassandra disappeared from the war room in a flash of pale green light. A strained silence fell over the advisors as they stared at the space Ciri and Cassandra had just occupied.

“They’re really in a different world?” Cullen asked, his voice hushed. “Are they – is it entirely safe?”

“Ciri knows what she’s doing,” Triss assured him. “They’ll be back soon.”

“An hour or two, according to Lady Ciri,” Leliana said. “I suppose I can get some work done while we wait. There is much to do.”

“In my office, please, Leliana, or in the rookery,” Josephine said quietly. “And you, Cullen, and Triss.”

Olgierd’s mouth went dry at the pensive, careful look she gave him, and he nodded to her. No, there would be no more secrets between them.

Leliana caught their look and narrowed her eyes. “Absolutely not. Josie, this man may have turned your head, but you know nothing of him beyond that he’s _probably_ from another world and has some dark past. As your friend –”

“As my friend, you’ll let me make my own choices,” Josephine interrupted. “Go, Leliana. Please. I’ll call you back if I need your help.”

Leliana still looked resistant.

Triss cleared her throat, pulling all eyes her way. “I could use some help tracking down Clemence Fisher and Evelyn Trevelyan, Commander, if you have the time.”

“What do you want with them?” Cullen asked, resting his hand on the pommel of his sword.

“I have some skill with alchemy,” Triss explained. “I can’t undo the damage of my lie, but with some help and the right equipment, I may be able to come up with something better than the potion Evelyn’s making for you and the Markham Templars. We might even find some answers to why lyrium is so addictive.”

Cullen sighed. “Does it have to be now, Serah Merigold? As you said, you don’t have the equipment. And to be completely honest, I have a pressing need to not be anywhere near you.”

“I don’t blame you.” Triss looked at him earnestly. “I wasn’t there when Owain and the others explained how serious lyrium addiction is. I didn’t come up with the story, but I went along with it, and Owain and Raúl couldn’t contradict it without bringing trouble down on our heads. I’m sorry for what it cost Ser Rylen.”

“I can’t forgive it. Not yet,” Cullen said. “Perhaps if your alchemical studies bear fruit. But for now…”

“I understand.”

Cullen dropped his hand from his sword and stalked off toward the door, calling over his shoulder as he pushed it open. “Don’t worry. I’ll keep quiet.”

“I should see what Vivienne is up to, if he’s not going to help me,” Triss said as the door closed behind Cullen. "I'll be back in a couple of hours."

She followed Cullen out the door. Leliana lingered, her scowl not quite managing to disguise her worry.

“I won’t hurt Josephine,” Olgierd told her. The very thought was abhorrent. “You have my word.”

“The word of a professed liar is hardly credible, but I will accept it for now.” Leliana tossed her head and turned to Josephine. “I’ll be at your desk, Josie. Scream if he so much as offends you.”

“ _Go_ , Leliana. We’ll be fine.”

Leliana turned on her heel, disappearing out the door in a faint clink of mail. Alone with Josephine at last, Olgierd found himself at a rare loss for words. Back in the mountains, he’d been certain he was ready for this. Now that the time had come, his nerves were failing him.

Josephine looked intently at the illusory nectarine still cradled in her hand. “ _Will_ you offend me?”

He couldn’t help his faint huff of wry laughter. “Much of my past is offensive, I fear.”

“I find that hard to credit.” She set the nectarine down by the platter of false fruit and met his eyes kindly. “But I can see you believe your words, so I’ll remind you that we spoke of this before. Neither of us would judge another by their past. Whatever you have to say, it will not change my fondness for you.”

“I feel the same,” he admitted. “But I’ll not hold you to that if you change your mind.”

She took his hand and led him off to a cluttered corner where a handful of crates and barrels still waited to be opened. “Sit with me,” she invited him, perching on a barrel and spreading her skirt across her lap. Her warm perfume wafted lightly toward him, and despite himself, he found the hard knot in his stomach relenting just the slightest bit.

He took a seat on two stacked crates, his knees brushing against hers. She twined her fingers through his and rested their joined hands on her knee, and he absently stroked the back of her thumb with the pad of his as he gathered his thoughts.

“You don’t need to say anything if the memories are so painful,” Josephine said softly. “I would prefer you say nothing if that’s the case.”

“Nay, I fear I must,” he said. “You deserve to know who you’re keeping company with.”

“Then start with what hurts least to tell, and work from there.” She squeezed his hand gently, her hazel eyes filled with compassion he hardly deserved.

What hurt the least? He struggled for a moment to think of something to say. Then he had an answer. He addressed it to their joined hands. “I spent over thirty years unable to die,” he said. “Unaging, unchanging. Unable to feel. A curse laid on me by a being I sought out on my own accord. Ciri’s father freed me from the curse four years ago.”

He looked up at her soft, quiet inhalation. “Oh, Olgierd.” She reached out with her free hand, her fingertips grazing the deep, curved scar on his skull, half-hidden by the growing stubble. “How many of these injuries would have killed you?”

He didn’t have to think. “Perhaps forty or so. The others were serious enough to scar, but not life-threatening.”

“Maker.” She fell silent for several seconds. “If you didn’t age for over thirty years, then…”

“How old am I?”

“If that’s not prying.”

“Seventy-one, dove.”

Her eyes widened, then she looked down. His heart gave a pang at the uncertainty that crossed her face. “I must seem young to you.”

“You did when we met,” he admitted. “Young and beautiful, and very accomplished. A rare flower in the Inquisition’s field. But I came to Thedas a heart-sore, tired old man. Ciri has been a true friend, kept me from brooding, forced me to treat this like the second chance at life I wish it to be. I’ve begun to feel the age I am in body, rather than what my mind insists I must be.”

She slowly looked back up, the uncertainty fading. Her deep hazel eyes searched his. “And how old is that?”

"Thirty-eight, perhaps a bit older," he said and shrugged. "I fear the intervening years between the curse taking hold and its lifting blur together a bit.”

“You look like you suffered during those years," she said and squeezed his hand again.

“I wouldn’t have called it that,” he said slowly. “I felt nothing. No joy, no angst, no fear. Just a deep void that ached to be filled by the thrill of new experiences. I was an empty shell of a man. I fear it’s others who suffered my curse in my drive to relieve that void.”

“Tell me,” she entreated him, then shook her head. “No, if it’s not too difficult a question – how did you come to be cursed to begin with?”

His hand tightened around her fingers convulsively. “I was a blind, grasping, prideful fool who couldn’t leave well enough alone.”

He couldn’t bring himself to look at her as he started to speak, his eyes on the golden dust motes dancing in the sunlight by the window above her head. The past coiled around him, dragging him further down with each reluctant word. He could almost smell the wet mud by the Oxenfurt docks, feel the wind tangling his robes as he rode on Lurtch or Mulbrydale. Could almost hear the crack of his father-in-law’s skull hitting stone.

Only the feel of Josephine’s soft hand in his and the sweet, spicy scent of blackcurrant blossoms, cardamom, and vanilla anchored him in the present.

He started, as was only right, at the beginning. With two brothers from an old Redanian family, encouraged in their wildness. With a family of noble-born marauders, who earned their gold over the generations through war and pillaging villages just across the border while the Redanian crown looked the other way. And with a band of raiders so feared by peasants in Velen that the mere mention of their leader’s name could incite panic among the rabble.

He didn’t linger over the depredations as her fingers twitched in his. He spoke instead of a young woman, an artist, and a chance meeting on the docks of Oxenfurt. Of her goodness, and his wish to have such goodness in his life. Of their courtship, and the broken engagement as his family’s fortune disappeared and his parents died in penury.

His despair and desperation when he learned of another suitor, and Iris’ refusal to elope.

Master Mirror...Gaunter O’Dimm...appearing to him when he thought all hope was lost. And all he needed to do to regain his love and fortune was sell his soul and damn himself forever.

His voice sank to a whisper as he admitted his most shameful trade.

“That raid...the table overturned on Vlod’s head, killed him instantly. And on my return to Oxenfurt, the von Everec fortune was restored to my family, to _me_ , and Iris’ parents approved our engagement again.”

His eyes stung. He looked away from the sunlight streaming in through the window, blinking rapidly.

“The final wish –” His voice failed him. He cleared his throat and tried again. “I wished to live as if there were no tomorrow. And at first it was marvelous. All my senses were clearer than ever before. But a hole grew inside me, hollowed me out so gradually I failed to notice until –”

“ _Stop_.”

Josephine’s voice cut across his. He turned to her reluctantly and saw tears misting her eyes. “Stop,” she said again. “Olgierd, please.”

“My apologies,” he said at once, stricken. He fumbled for her handkerchief with his free hand and held it out to her. “I’ve hurt you. It wasn’t my intent.”

“Oh, you _are_ blind,” she sighed, dabbing at her eyes. She scrunched the handkerchief and tightened her grip on his hand. “I don’t need to hear the rest. Maker, I never should have asked. I don’t recognize the man you describe, and it pains me to know you have such heartache in your past.”

“Josephine...dove, I’m the cause of it.”

"Yes," she agreed. "And you're also the man who helped a fledgling Inquisition restore order in the Hinterlands without the promise of pay or reward. Who fought demons beneath the Breach when it first opened. Who chose to be _Harrowed_ rather than abandon a friend. The man who befriended a busy young woman with thoughtful discussions on books and music, and earned her regard with his kindness and chivalrous spirit.

“I don’t know this man from the Continent. I sincerely hope I never meet him. But this man in front of me?” she said, reaching out to cup his bristly cheek. “He is a _good man_.”

“It’s a kinder judgment than I deserve.”

“It’s not a judgment,” she said. “I’m not a magistrate or a Chantry mother. Did you bare your soul to me expecting me to weigh it and find you wanting? To extract some measure of punishment for crimes you didn’t even commit in Thedas? Or did you tell me so this secret wouldn’t plague you any longer?”

“I could not court you honestly and not tell you all of it,” he said hoarsely, looking down at their entwined fingers. Her eyes were too knowing. “As to the rest – perhaps it’s so. I hadn’t considered it when I thought to tell you.”

Her hand caressed his cheek gently and drew back. “You are unkind to yourself, and I will not be used to help you hurt yourself further. Perhaps I am as naive as Leliana believes I am. I haven’t had much experience with romance. But I’ve always thought it was meant to be a partnership, where joys and sorrows are shared and support is offered unstintingly.”

“Your vision of a partnership is a lovely one,” he said. The thought warmed him. “I suspect we’ve near the same amount of experience in romance, given my abject failure in my only other relationship. Perhaps we can learn together if you truly don't see my past as an obstacle."

Josephine looked at him hesitantly from beneath her long lashes. “The same amount? There was only ever Iris?”

“I had my dalliances and flirtations before I met her, but I’ve always been a faithful man,” he assured her, reluctantly amused despite the heaviness of their conversation. “Knowing how to flirt doesn’t make me a libertine.”

“I apologize,” she said with a faint blush. “It’s hypocritical of me to ask that and tell you not to share your history at the same time.”

“I don’t begrudge you your questions,” he told her. “Whatever you wish to know, whatever will set your mind at ease. Ask, and I’ll tell you if I can.”

“Will this ‘Master Mirror’ come back for you?” she asked. Her voice was level, but he could see the worry in her eyes. “Are you safe from him?”

His heart skipped a beat, and for a moment he was back at Lilvani’s temple standing on a faded mosaic of a moon, filled with dread and the sudden, inescapable knowledge that he was about to suffer a fate worse than death. He shook his head firmly. “Nay. He plays his games but once. The Witcher beat him by his own rules. I suspect I’ve seen the last of him. He’ll have moved on to easier prey.”

“And the curse?”

“Gone for years now,” he said. “When I’m wounded, I heal as a normal man should. The lines on my forehead are a mite deeper as well since I’ve started aging again,” he added ruefully.

“You look very distinguished,” Josephine said with a fond smile.

“And you are radiant, my dear. I lose my breath when you smile at me.” She laughed softly, shaking her head, and he said, “Merely keeping to our agreement, dove. We mustn’t leave work unfinished.”

“Oh, I should throw you at some of our visiting dignitaries when we’re set up to receive them,” she told him, her voice filled with amusement. “Fifteen minutes with you and they’ll agree to anything.”

“I haven’t a patch on your skills with diplomacy,” he demurred.

He watched as her smile faded slowly, and the hand holding the silk handkerchief tightened to a white-knuckled grip. “Ciri has family back in your world. Her whole life is there. And Triss is a king’s advisor. I don’t see them staying in Thedas for longer than absolutely necessary. But you...are you going to return as well?”

“I’m staying.” He laid his free hand over her tense fist, gently stroking the clenched fingers with his thumb. “Whether we continue our courtship or part as friends, I’m staying here. I like the man I am in this world. The Inquisition has allowed me to do good, to begin to balance the scales.”

“When do you think you’ll stop trying to atone for your past?” she asked him.

“It’s not atonement, not truly. If it were, I’d try to make amends back in Velen.”

“A fresh start, then?”

“When I’m very, very old and completely gray,” he said, “I’d like to look back on my life and find I’ve not wasted the second chance the Witcher granted me.”

“I don’t believe you have,” she said as her hand slowly relaxed beneath his. Her tense posture loosened, and she gave him a small smile that warmed him through. “You are a good man. Your actions prove as much. And you belong in this world now. I’ve bribed and bargained with enough people that Olgierd von Everec of Hunter Fell and Denerim is as real as I can make him.”

“Then may a penniless half-Ferelden mage pay court to you, Lady Josephine?” he asked her.

“Messere Olgierd, I shall be quite displeased if you don’t.”

Relief broke over him like a wave, washing away the last of his gnawing doubts and fears. There was still much left unsaid about his past – the enumeration of his sins against Iris and her family had been cut off before he could speak of them – but perhaps Josephine was right. Perhaps it was time to lay his years in Redania to rest and start anew, wiser for the experience.

He stood, drawing her to her feet with him. “Thank you,” he said quietly, with painful sincerity. “For listening.”

She withdrew her hand from his and smoothed out the crumpled silk handkerchief, folding it into a small, neat square and pressing it back into his palm. “We do not judge each other’s pasts,” she said again, her hazel eyes warm. “I look forward to sharing my joys with you.”

“As do I.”

“Come,” she said, twining her arm through his and leading him to the door. “We should reassure Leliana that she doesn’t need to defend my honor by trying to assassinate my suitor.”

“I spent the first week in the Inquisition afraid she’d slit my throat over those abomination rumors,” Olgierd confessed. “I’ve no desire to give her another reason to want to kill me.”

“She’s been a bard for many years. Trust does not come easily to her, and she’s protective of those she does consider trustworthy,” Josephine said. She looked up at him and smiled. “Don’t worry. I won’t let her harm you.”

“No man has ever had a more capable defender,” he said as he tucked her handkerchief back up his sleeve.

She went up on tiptoe and brushed a kiss across his unkempt, bearded cheek as she opened the door. “Never underestimate an Antivan when romance is on the line.”

He followed her out the door, startled into laughter, the ghostly sensation of a kiss lingering on his skin.

* * *

Ciri screamed. She curled into herself, clutching her hand at the wrist as pain wracked her body. The emerald light flared violently, blindingly bright. She held agony in the palm of her hand. It tore at her bones and muscles from the inside out, rending and flaying. She could do nothing but sob as her hand seemed to tear apart, sending white-hot lines of fire up her arm as it did.

Cassandra dropped to her knees beside her, wrapping an arm around her shoulders. She asked something, her voice urgent. Ciri shook her head in incomprehension.

“–Happened?” Cassandra asked again, the question breaking through the wall of pain.

“Don’t. Know,” Ciri choked out. She gritted her teeth, squeezing her eyes shut against the flaring light.

A door slammed. Pounding feet, three pairs.

“ _Ciri! CIRI!_ ”

Geralt grasped her by the chin as Lady Yennefer swore and started to intone a spell in Elder Speech. She forced herself to open her eyes, looking at him through a sheen of tears.

“Go back,” he ordered her. “Now.”

She took a hitching, sobbing breath and tried to pull on her magic. Her hand flared again, wildly bright, and she collapsed forward into his arms, her body screaming in pain.

“I can’t – I can’t!”

“It’s not responding,” Yennefer said tersely. “Gather my supplies, Geralt, and ride to Casteldaccia. I’ll take Ciri to the portal there.”

“I won’t be left behind,” Cassandra protested. “My duty is to the Hand.”

“And mine is to my daughter,” Yennefer snapped. “Ride with Geralt.”

“I’ll send them by portal,” Keira said from over Geralt’s shoulder. “It will save time.”

Geralt didn’t disagree.

Yennefer pulled Ciri to her feet and drew her arm around her shoulders, keeping her braced with a firm grip around her waist. “I have you, Ciri. Hold on to me.”

Her mother gestured with her free hand and a portal yawned open in front of them, stirring the dusty cobblestones and pulling at Yennefer’s skirt. They stepped through together, Ciri leaning heavily on her mother’s shoulders.

For a breathless, merciful moment, she felt nothing. Then they exited in a familiar courtyard, and the pain returned in a rush. She staggered, a cry of pain escaping her.

“I have you,” Yennefer said again, leading her forward. “Be brave, my daughter.”

“Yennefer?”

Ciri raised her head to see the tall, statuesque form of Margarita Laux-Antille step out from through the door she, Triss, and Olgierd had broken into only a few months ago. “Ciri!” she cried out in shock, running forward to help. “What happened to you?”

“There’s no time, Rita,” Yennefer said as she allowed Margarita to help take some of Ciri’s weight. “We need access to the portal to Thedas at once.”

“I thought she was dead!” Margarita hissed over Ciri’s head at Yennefer. “How could you let me think that, Yenna?”

“ _Not now!_ ”

“Hiding,” Ciri gasped. “Don’t – don’t tell. Emhyr mustn’t know.”

Ciri only caught a glimpse of the renovated interior as the two sorceresses rushed her through the door and toward the dark portal. Every surface gleamed, and the old, rustic table had been replaced by a low, elegant sofa and armchairs. The harsh green light streaming from her hand cast the room into sharp shadows. Two young mages jumped up from their seats, startled, as they burst in.

“Rector!”

Margarita gripped Ciri tighter. “Back to your studies, Demelza, Aric.”

“But –”

“Hush, Aric. Yes, Rector.” The young woman tugged the teenage boy down, and they both watched in silence avidly.

Margarita replaced the power crystal with her free hand, and the portal hummed to life with an eerie blue-green glow. “I want answers when you return,” she told Yennefer, letting go of Ciri and stepping back.

“You’ll have them,” Yennefer said. “Geralt is coming with supplies and another woman –”

“Cassandra,” Ciri managed to whisper. She sobbed as pain tore through her hand anew.

“–Shortly,” Yennefer continued. “Send them through after us, Rita, without delay. Please.”

“Whatever you need,” Margarita said. “Take care, little one.”

Yennefer helped Ciri stagger to the portal, and with a lurching step, they crossed through the glowing surface. For another breathless moment, her pain vanished. Then they were back in Ostwick in the small walled courtyard of the Trevelyan estate. Ciri’s knees buckled as the agony wracking her abruptly fled, and she cried out in relief.

“What? What is it?” Yennefer asked, frantic with worry.

Ciri stumbled upright, shaking. “No. It’s – it’s better now.”

Her hand felt heavier than ever before, like her veins were filled with stone, and her palm tingled with that horrible pins and needles sensation, but the pain was gone. She trembled, raising her good hand to her eyes to scrub away the tears.

“Ciri, _what happened_?” Yennefer demanded.

She swallowed dryly, pushing down the panic threatening to engulf her now that she could think. “I don’t know. It’s never done this before!”

“You haven’t come home since you got this mark,” her mother said. “Damn it. _Damn_ it. We should have come to you sooner.”

Two liveried guards rushed through the gate, hands on their sword hilts. They stopped short at the sight of Ciri and Yennefer, and both bowed shallowly.

“Lady Cirilla, welcome back,” one of them said, dropping his hand from his hilt. “Lord Trevelyan is visiting Lord Angove’s estate presently, but Lady Trevelyan is home if you’ve come on business. Lord Liam and Lady Alondra are here as well.”

“Take us to them,” Yennefer said at once. Her tone brooked no dissent. “Ciri needs rest and a restorative, and we’ll need a place to sit where I can examine her hand. Her father and Cassandra are coming through shortly. You’ll need to escort them to us when they arrive.”

“Cassandra Pentaghast,” Ciri clarified at the guards’ puzzled looks.

“Right.” The guard who spoke nodded and turned to his partner. “Peder, you stay by the portal and wait for Seeker Pentaghast and Lady Cirilla’s father. I’ll show the guests to Lady Trevelyan.”

They followed the guard out of the courtyard and down the trellised path leading to the wide front yard. Ciri chanced a look at the main gate as they walked and saw it wasn’t barred from the inside anymore. Apparently the Trevelyans no longer saw it as necessary with the mages gone.

The interior of the manor was just as Ciri remembered, cool and airy. The guard led them up the stairs to the private family rooms, and as they passed through the portrait hall, Yennefer made a small sound of surprise.

The guard entered the withdrawing room ahead of them, speaking in a low voice to the people within. He came back out shortly and bowed again.

“Lady Trevelyan will see you.”

Ciri and Yennefer entered together, Yennefer’s hand a steadying presence on her back. Lady Trevelyan sat with Alondra on one of the couches together looking over a sheaf of papers while Liam stood by a bookcase along the wall. Alondra rose from her seat in alarm at the sight of Ciri, abandoning the papers to Lady Trevelyan’s lap.

“Maker, you’re white as a sheet! Come, sit.”

“Liam, there should be brandy in the sideboard,” Lady Trevelyan said as Alondra and Yennefer fussed over Ciri, guiding her to an empty armchair. “Fetch a snifter for Lady Ciri, would you dear?”

Liam came to her side with a generous measure of brandy in a small stemmed glass. “We hadn’t thought to see you again for a while after your last visit. Halden said you came through the portal, you and – who is this?”

“My mother,” Ciri said, accepting the snifter glass with a shaking hand. “Lady Yennefer of Vengerberg.”

“Ah, of course. Mistress Merigold and Rector Laux-Antille both spoke highly of you, Lady Yennefer,” Liam said.

He and Alondra sat on the couch with Lady Trevelyan, who tidied the stack of papers and set them aside neatly. Lady Trevelyan looked on approvingly as Ciri sipped at the strong brandy.

Yennefer knelt before her. “Give me your hand, Ciri.”

She extended her heavy, tingling hand and hissed in shock as Yennefer turned it palm up. “That’s – _no_!”

Green light spilled out from a spiderweb of cracks, like a broken pane of glass across her palm. Where there had only been one line before, now there were nearly a dozen. Long, short, fat, thin – the tips extended to the base of her fingers and the top of her wrist.

“And it didn’t look like this before?” Yennefer asked with forced calm.

Ciri took another sip of her brandy and set the glass on the arm of her chair. “No.” She traced the original line with her finger. “That’s what the mark was just ten minutes ago.”

“Triss told us what you said about it when you first showed her. Has it been getting worse?”

“For a while, I wasn’t sure. Then Corypheus used a magical focus to try to tear it away, and now...now, yes, it’s been getting worse for a few weeks,” Ciri admitted. She stared in sick disbelief at her palm as it shone up at them. It had only been a few minutes! How had things gone so unbelievably wrong?

Yennefer sat back on her heels, still holding Ciri’s hand. “Have you been keeping things from us, or is Corypheus a new problem?”

“I’ve kept nothing from you,” Ciri denied. She picked up her glass again for another sip, avoiding her mother’s judgmental eyebrow. “I only learned of Corypheus three weeks ago. He’s the one who created the Breach in the Veil.”

“And why didn’t you come to us immediately?”

Ciri was saved from having to answer by the arrival of Geralt and Cassandra, who hurried into the room in a muted clatter of steel. Geralt held out a large, polished wooden box with a silver clasp to Yennefer, and she dropped Ciri’s hand to take it.

Geralt knelt by the other arm of Ciri’s chair, his eyes filled with worry. “Are you all right?”

“I don’t feel like I’m being torn apart from the inside anymore, starting at my hand,” Ciri said. “But all right? I sincerely doubt it.”

“She’s not all right,” Yennefer said sharply as she rifled through her box. “Unless we separate that magic from her hand, she’s tied to this world for good. And I fear it will only get worse.”

Ciri’s heart dropped as Geralt swore.

“This is my fault,” Cassandra said. She shook her head in recrimination. “I insisted you take me to your world; I doubted you. Your pain is on my head. I apologize, my lady.”

“You couldn’t have known,” Ciri said. “None of us could have known.”

“No!” Cassandra insisted. “I should have had faith in you. The Maker’s ways are mysterious, but Justinia saw clearly. If there’s anything I can do to make amends –”

“You can sit quietly and not distract me while I work,” Yennefer said. She finally set the box aside, a milky green stone shaped like a large coin held in her hand. “Your palm, Ciri.”

To Ciri’s surprise, Cassandra did as Yennefer ordered. She held out her glowing hand, and Yennefer pressed the stone disc to her palm, incanting quietly in Elder Speech.

The stone began to faintly glow. Ciri flinched as the pins and needles sensation worsened, verging on painful, but her mother held her fast in an iron grip, still incanting. The milky green became translucent and brightened, taking on a distinctive emerald hue.

Yennefer’s voice rose as her hand spiked with pain. The stone abruptly cracked in two and fell to the floor, both halves shining nearly as intensely as her palm.

“That shouldn’t be possible,” Geralt said, staring at the broken disc with a thunderous frown.

“You don’t need to tell me that,” Yennefer snapped. She closed her violet eyes and took a deep, calming breath before catching and holding Ciri’s gaze. “Do you remember anything, anything at _all_ , about how this magic got on your hand?”

“Nothing,” Ciri said. “I’m missing memories. Why? What just happened?”

“I pulled enough magic out of that mark to power Garstang’s wards for a year,” Yennefer said, “and there’s still another century’s worth in your hand, at least. And the feel of it is strange, as if it were almost but not quite yours.”

Geralt hummed thoughtfully. “Like Dandelion had played one of his ballads in a minor key? Still recognizable, but –”

“Very similar, yes.”

The panic began to creep back in. Ciri took a somewhat larger swallow of brandy. “What do we do?” she asked. “How do we get it off?”

She refused to be stuck here any longer than necessary. And now Geralt and Yennefer were involved and worried. She’d have an uphill battle sending them back home.

Cassandra cleared her throat. “Solas may have suggestions, my lady. He spoke of the mark being Veil magic, and he is an expert on the Fade.”

“Forgive me for not trusting in your expert’s skill if things have deteriorated so badly under his care,” Yennefer said.

“Cassandra may be right,” Ciri said. “He’s been teaching me magic, Mother. I can use the spells of this world. I think he’s trustworthy. If he saw the state of my hand now, he’d make helping me a priority.”

“Ciri, your ability with those spells likely comes from that mark,” Yennefer told her. “Its magic is affecting you.”

She stilled. “And if I stopped using their magic?”

“You may have an easier time removing the mark. Relatively speaking.”

Slowly, reluctantly, Ciri closed her gleaming hand. “I need it for now. There are tears in the Veil that will only respond to this mark. Demons slip through the tears if they’re left open.”

“Ciri, you’re not listening,” Yennefer said, leaning forward. “That thing is going to kill you eventually. The only reason it hadn’t reached this point until today is you’d never left the bounds of the Veil, and your magic is similar enough that it isn’t trying to cannibalize it.”

“And you can’t come home until it’s gone,” Geralt added.

“I _know_ , damn it!” Ciri exclaimed. “Don’t you think I hate that? But I have responsibilities here!”

“Oh, _fuck_ your responsibilities,” Yennefer said flatly. “Your life is in danger. That thing comes off as soon as possible.”

Lady Trevelyan rose from the couch, and with a gesture, Alondra and Liam followed suit. “We’ll leave you to have your discussion in private,” she said graciously. “Lady Ciri, it’s always a pleasure to see you.”

Ciri nodded to the Trevelyans as they passed through the door, leaving a fraught silence behind them.

Geralt gave Yennefer a look, and she stood, taking her box and moving to the recently vacated couch. Ciri flexed her hand anxiously. She felt penned in, smothered. Trapped. If her mother was right, then the mark was a death sentence, and her headstone might be carved on a foreign world she was too stubborn not to help.

“You didn’t answer me,” Yennefer said. “Why didn’t you come to us for help the moment you learned about Corypheus?”

Ciri looked away. “You said to ask you for help if I needed it. I didn’t.”

“Funny,” Geralt said dryly. “Now let’s try the real reason.”

She polished off her brandy, the alcohol burning the back of her throat as she swallowed the last large gulp. “Fine. You want to know why? You died. I was thrown headfirst into a future where nearly everyone was dead and you, Yennefer, Eskel, Lambert, and Keira came from the Continent to find me. We barely had twenty minutes together before Corypheus’ army attacked. And _you died_.”

She would never, ever tell him who’d killed him.

“I had to watch you bleed out in front of me,” she continued. “I couldn’t do anything. It was just like Rivia. I’ve watched you die twice now, Geralt. I refuse to see it happen a third time.”

“And where was I in all this?” Yennefer asked, her face pale.

“You had all been fighting on the other side of a barrier of fire,” Ciri said. “Then you screamed, so loudly, and Geralt’s body came flying past the flames. What became of you, I don’t know. I went back to the present not long after.”

Geralt stood and cupped the back of her head with a strong hand. “Hey. Look at me.”

She did, dragging her eyes up to that pale, scarred face she loved so much.

“No Witcher has ever died in their bed, Ciri.”

She glared up at him. “Don’t you _dare_ die for Thedas.”

“The same applies to you,” Yennefer said. She studied Ciri carefully. “If we stay, you’ll fret yourself sick, won’t you?”

“I can’t lose you,” Ciri said helplessly. “Not after everything we’ve been through.”

“And how do you think we feel?” Yennefer gave her a stern look that had her fighting not to hunch her shoulders up around her ears in shame. “Did Geralt not travel half the Continent searching for you? Do you think I wouldn’t endure Vilgefortz’ torture all over again just to see you alive and well today?”

“That’s not fair,” Ciri whispered.

“Not fair is asking us to turn around and leave you to deal with this on your own,” Geralt said.

Yennefer shook her head and sighed. “We’ll do it anyway, Geralt.”

Geralt shot Yennefer an incredulous look. “You’re kidding.”

“I wish I were.” Yennefer cast her gaze at Cassandra. “How much trouble would we cause her if we were to show up at your Inquisition’s headquarters?”

“Given that the cover story is that Lady Ciri’s parents are deceased, a considerable amount,” Cassandra said. “Add to that the Chantry’s fear of apostates, and Ser Geralt’s unconventional appearance, and you would raise a host of questions we would struggle to answer. That’s assuming no one tries to kill Ser Geralt as an abomination on sight.”

Geralt ran a weary hand down his face. “Damn it.”

“You’re brave and talented, Ciri, and I have every faith in your abilities,” Yennefer said. “I don’t like it. But I understand. You’re a woman grown and we’ve trained you as well as we can.”

Geralt grumbled. “Fine. Don’t think this means we’re leaving you completely on your own, though. Triss comes back whenever she gets a chance to slip away, and if she thinks we’re needed, we’re coming. No arguments.”

Ciri gave a jerky nod. She’d be making sure Triss knew not to summon them for anything short of another near-apocalypse.

Yennefer opened her box again and withdrew another five milky green stone discs. “Give these to Triss. She’ll know how to draw magic into them.”

Ciri tucked them away in her belt pouch, and Cassandra spoke up again.

“I will protect your daughter,” she said. “She will return to you, you have my word.”

Yennefer turned on her with fiery eyes. “Will you protect her from your Chantry? Triss told us of this ‘Hand’ nonsense, and what happened to the last person your religion raised to such heights. If they come for her, will you stand between them?”

Cassandra looked momentarily conflicted, then set her shoulders firmly. “I will. I swear it.”

“We’ll hold you to that,” Geralt warned her. “She’s not your prophet or a saint. She’s a person, flesh and blood. Remember that.”

“Geralt will be the least of your worries should you fail to keep Ciri alive and well,” Yennefer added.

“I won’t fail.” Cassandra seemed to take the parental threats in stride.

Ciri interrupted before Geralt and Yennefer got it in their heads to add more conditions to her independence. She was twenty-four, damn it, and a trained Witcher. She could handle herself. And constantly watching over her shoulder to make sure nothing had killed Geralt or Yennefer while she wasn’t looking would strain her nerves to their breaking point.

“I’m sorry our trip to Corvo Bianco didn’t work out,” she said to Cassandra. “But you wanted to meet Geralt, and he’s here now. If we keep to our schedule, we have another hour and a half for you to ask all the questions you wish.” She glanced at her parents and added reluctantly, “You as well. I’m sure you’re curious.”

Cassandra and Geralt spoke over each other.

“What made your eyes look that way?”

“Where’s your sword?”

Yennefer stood and walked to the sideboard. “More brandy, I think. Ciri?”

“ _Please_.”

How was she supposed to explain losing _Zireael_ to a corrupted dragon, an explosion, and an avalanche? She groaned quietly. They’d not be pleased to hear what she’d been up to.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, thank you for your feedback! I really appreciate it, and I love hearing from you!


	30. Inquisitors and Champions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ciri's worry about being named Inquisitor proves well-founded. Several issues are thrown her way, including a problem brought to her by Varric's best friend.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beta-read by brightspot149. Thank you!

Ciri left Solas and Triss behind in their appropriated workroom near the new tavern, her hand sore and tingling. They’d poked and prodded it for an hour, casting spells and asking endless questions. Ciri didn’t know what to make of Solas’ reaction to her new broken glass shaped mark. He’d frozen, his face blank. Then he’d immediately swept into action, speaking calmly all the while. But in that brief moment in between, she would swear she’d seen anger – deep anger, and sorrow.

Her teleportation still worked under the Veil. According to her mother, however, each time she used it she tugged the anchor open just the slightest bit wider. Solas and Triss agreed with the theory. She’d used it to take Cassandra and herself back to Skyhold, but she was under strict orders to avoid any further ‘Fade-stepping’ unless her life was in danger.

She’d been right. Her parents hadn’t been happy about the avalanche. Nor about the corrupted dragon, the assassin in Val Royeaux, the ongoing deification, and especially not about Corypheus. But they’d kept their word and returned to the Continent without attempting to renegotiate, leaving her with only the five stone discs and their fervent well-wishes. The discs were in Triss’ possession now, and she’d made mention of seeking out Josephine to establish trade routes so she could get her hands on more. Chrysoprase wouldn’t be too hard for merchants dealing in ores and gems to come by.

As glad as she was that there seemed to be a path forward, frustration still burned within her like an ember. She’d come here to help of her own free will. Now she was trapped, her freedom denied her, her hand slowly killing her. She needed to know what happened in the Temple of Sacred Ashes now more than ever. And if Corypheus had answers, he certainly hadn’t stopped to share in between his megalomaniacal pontificating.

“What did the mages have to say?” Cassandra asked as Ciri shut the workroom door behind her.

She turned, startled. “Have you been waiting for me this whole time?”

“We went back to the War Room to speak of your revelations, and of your predicament,” Cassandra said. “I only just returned.”

“And?”

“Walk with me.”

They set off across the grounds together, Cassandra leading the way toward the steps to the main hall. Ciri gave her a moment to gather her thoughts.

“We are in agreement that the Maker had a hand in bringing you here,” Cassandra said eventually. “We also agree that your concerns about the Chantry have merit. We will guard your secrets. Should you deem anyone else in the Inquisition worthy of trust, that is your business, though Leliana ought to be informed.”

“That’s reasonable,” Ciri said. “Thank you.”

“Don’t thank us yet,” Cassandra told her. “We realized why you told us. It was not simply to come clean, though your honesty is appreciated.”

“Cassandra –”

“You believed that if you told us the truth, we would no longer wish to have you as our Inquisitor.” She snorted softly. “It almost worked. But there is no one who can replace you, Lady Ciri, and we cannot lead by committee.”

“We’ve been doing fine leading by committee so far!”

“We have not,” Cassandra said, “nor has this been a true committee, as the final decision has consistently been yours. No. The Inquisition needs an Inquisitor. And you are the one who has already been leading it. You are the one who stands as rival and equal to Corypheus, and as inspiration to those who follow us.”

“You don’t want to think about this a little longer?” Ciri demanded. “Your timing is terrible!”

“We spent the better part of half an hour debating it,” Cassandra said. “We have made our decision. You are the leader we need. And it cannot wait.”

Ciri’s heart dropped at the sight of Leliana waiting at the landing on the stairs, an enormous, gaudy sword lying across her hands.

“I thought you weren’t going to ambush me!” she whispered furiously.

Cassandra smiled and prodded her lightly between her shoulders. “We changed our minds.”

Ciri walked up the stairs slowly on wooden, unwilling legs. _I knew it_. She knew it would come to this, that her constant waffling back and forth would have to come to an end. She’d thought she’d manage to settle it her way, seen to it that she could fight and lead without the burden of ruling. She should have realized she couldn’t escape so easily.

She looked down into the lower courtyard and saw dozens of faces staring back eagerly, hope and pride shining from their eyes. Here and there she spotted people she recognized. Cullen stood front and center, and near him, Owain and Evelyn.

Owain met her eyes and smiled, and she couldn’t help but smile back, her frustration cooling ever so slightly. What she’d give to be down there with him instead of up here! What they had was still so new, but she already knew she’d miss it once she went home for good.

Several feet away, Josephine stood with Olgierd, Maxwell, and Dorian. There were the mages, still keeping to their tense, subtle divisions, and there was the small collection of Chantry folk. She raised her eyes to the battlements and had to bite back a laugh as Sera waved with manic energy and Blackwall raised a hand in acknowledgment.

She stepped forward, meeting Leliana’s knowing eyes. _One last try._

“I’m not happy with this,” she said, too quietly for the people below to hear.

“History is full of reluctant leaders,” Leliana said, equally quiet. “Many of them prove more worthy of their power than those who covet it. King Alistair of Ferelden is one such man.”

“You know I’ll not stay.” She’d do her damnedest to make sure of it.

“The Maker brought you here for a purpose,” Cassandra said. “When your purpose is fulfilled, He will see you safely home. We would not keep you from your family, my lady.”

Ciri pushed down the last of her frustration and worry. If she was to do this, she’d do it right. No more prevarication. She’d give her all, and she’d do it well, just as her grandmother had given everything to Cintra.

“There would be no Inquisition without you,” Cassandra added. “How it will serve, how you lead...that must be yours to decide.”

Leliana held out the gaudy sword with a shallow bow, and Ciri reached for the hilt, her stomach in knots. She looked down at the crowd again. Olgierd nodded to her, warmth in his eyes. Owain gave her a small, private smile.

The sword was a garish monstrosity of a parade weapon, Ciri thought as she hefted it in her good hand. All gold and flash, with a hideous hilt shaped like a dragon’s claws. _I hope that's not their idea of a replacement for_ Zireael _._

“The Inquisition will stand for justice,” she told Cassandra and Leliana. “Those who suffer, those who have faced the torment of prejudice and persecution, shall find the Inquisition will always offer a hand in friendship.

“Together, we will defeat Corypheus and restore order. He is an evil we cannot allow to remain unchallenged. He intends to be a god; he aims to rule over Thedas and restore ancient Tevinter’s glory days. He must be stopped.”

“These are worthy goals,” Leliana agreed. “We will gladly help you achieve them.”

Cassandra turned to the crowd below and called out, “Have our people been told?”

“They have!” Josephine called back. “And soon, all of Thedas will know!”

“Commander!” Cassandra cried. “Will they follow?”

Cullen unsheathed his sword, raising it above his head as he turned to face the crowd. “Inquisition! Will you follow?”

They roared in agreement.

“Will you _fight_?”

The cheering grew louder.

“ _Will we_ _triumph_?”

The cries were almost deafening. Cullen saluted her with his sword, and Ciri raised the metal monstrosity in her hand in response, wringing another cheer from their throats.

She held it up for another moment, then stepped away from the edge of the landing, handing it back to Leliana. _That had better be the end of the pomp and fuss._

“Tell me you don’t intend for me to fight with that thing,” she muttered.

Leliana laughed softly. “It is purely ceremonial, not to worry. We’re arranging for an arcanist to come and provide her services to the Inquisition. She and Harritt should be able to forge you a new blade in a few weeks.”

“In the meantime, you can use something from the armory,” Cassandra said. “Come. We need to discuss our next steps.”

They walked up the remainder of the stairs as the crowd dispersed. Leliana said quietly, "Yes. I've received a report from our scouts in the south that a group of Avvar has taken some soldiers hostage in the Fallow Mire. We should prioritize retrieving them."

“Do your spies have any intelligence on when Corypheus might strike at Empress Celene?” Ciri asked. “I agree, we should rescue our scouts, but if we’re pressed for time, we might need to send someone else.”

“The Avvar leader has challenged you directly,” Leliana said. “If we delegate this, their lives are forfeit.” She paused and added, her eyes unreadable, “There are rumors Grand Duchess Florianne de Chalons is pushing for peace talks between the empress and the grand duke, but that won’t bear fruit for months. But our soldiers know their duty. We are all prepared to die for the Inquisition.”

Ciri opened the door to the main hall and stepped inside, leaving behind the unseasonably sunny courtyard. She blinked hard as her eyes adjusted to the cool, dim interior. “I can’t tell if that’s a poor attempt at manipulation or if you genuinely believe that, but either way, I don’t value our people’s lives so cheaply, and neither should you. I’ll round up a few people to take to the Fallow Mire tomorrow when we’re done speaking.”

“As you say, Inquisitor,” Leliana murmured.

Ciri couldn’t tell if the spymaster was pleased or not. She looked over as the door creaked open again and smiled to see Owain enter with Josephine, Olgierd, Cullen, Dorian, and his brother. He took one look at her and moved to stand by her side. She looped her pinky through his and squeezed briefly, then let go, giving him a quick smile.

“Don’t mind us, we’re just passing through,” Dorian said. “Oh, and congratulations on that whole Inquisitor thing, by the way.”

“Passing through to where?” Ciri asked. “I’d like to speak with you later.”

Maxwell shook his head in mock dismay. “To our sorry excuse for a library, sorting through the dreck.”

“I’ll see you up there, then.”

Olgierd drew close and gave her a careful look, his blue-green eyes not missing anything. He frowned as she closed her marked hand. “Are you well?” he asked in an undertone.

She was tied to a foreign world and her hand might kill her. She wasn’t well at all. “I’ve been better,” she said simply. “And you?”

“Life is occasionally kinder than I expect it to be,” he said with a slight smile.

“Where are you off to?” she asked.

“I’m on my way down to the kitchens,” Olgierd said, “but as Dorian said, congratulations. There’s none better for the job.”

“Thank you,” she said. She was touched by his regard despite her frustration. Then the oddness of his destination struck her. “What are you doing in the kitchens?”

He winked. “Patience, dear.”

He pressed a kiss to Josephine’s knuckles and bade them all farewell, striding away.

Leliana cleared her throat pointedly, and Josephine rolled her eyes.

“It’s not your business, Leliana.”

“Shall we move this to the War Room, ladies?” Cullen interrupted. “Ser Owain?”

Ciri looked up at Owain in surprise. “You’re joining us?”

“I’m being punished with a promotion,” he said, shooting Cullen a tense, half-apologetic look. “Raúl, too, when he gets back from Therinfal with the Chargers. It takes some of the work off R – Commander Cullen’s shoulders and keeps us under his direct supervision.”

The group began to move toward the door leading to Josephine’s office and the War Room beyond it. Once it was safely shut behind them, Cullen turned to Ciri.

“There was no practical way to demote Sers Owain and Raúl, given the nature of their deception. Additionally, Cassandra and Leliana felt that the Trevelyans were too integral to your arrival in Thedas to take punitive measures. A well-supervised promotion was the best compromise.”

Ciri nodded. She wouldn’t defend it, much as she wished she could. Someone had been hurt in the course of protecting their secrets. There was no taking that back. Cullen had a right to his anger. She changed the subject instead.

“What else needs our attention?” she asked.

“Well,” Josephine started, “while it’s not pressing, Inquisitor, when we establish trade to Skyhold, we’ll need to make decisions about décor and choose furnishings for your quarters.”

“Nothing too ostentatious or overtly religious,” Ciri said promptly. “The rest I leave in your capable hands.”

“There is also the matter of Alexius,” Leliana said. “He is currently languishing in the dungeon awaiting your say on his fate.”

“And the Imperium won’t kick up a fuss if we execute one of the members of its Magisterium?”

“The Archon has let it be known that he’s washed his hands of their wayward Magister,” Leliana said. “Kill him, imprison him, or send him back – Radonis’ position is that Alexius is no longer worthy of the title, and undeserving of the Imperium’s protection.”

“I see the glorious empire of his fever dreams doesn’t return his regard,” Ciri said dryly. She sighed. “Let’s shelve that for now. I can’t have my first act as Inquisitor be to sentence a man to death, however heinous his crimes.”

“The punishment need not be execution,” Josephine suggested as she opened the door to the War Room. “A creative enough sentence might make execution seem merciful in comparison.”

“I’ll give it some thought. Anything else?”

They spread out around the giant carved table. Josephine withdrew a small lacquer box from her skirts and flipped open the lid, revealing newly cast pewter tokens. She began to place them across the map in a mirror of where they’d sat on the table back in Haven.

“There’s the matter of the Grey Warden treaties the scouts found out on the Storm Coast,” Cullen said. “Now that we know that the man behind the Breach and the explosion at the Conclave is no man at all, but an intelligent darkspawn, we need to give serious consideration to using them.”

“Corypheus is the only darkspawn we’ve seen so far,” Owain pointed out. “And Sister Leliana said the dragon can’t be an archdemon, not so soon after the last Blight.”

Leliana gave him a cool look. “So long as no one else knows this, we can use the disinformation to our advantage. The treaties can be invoked by a Grey Warden during a Blight. We have one of the Magisters Sidereal and a potential archdemon rampaging across Thedas, and a Warden in our ranks. The only question is, what do we wish to gain from invoking them?”

“That’s not the question,” Ciri said in exasperation. “Oughtn’t the question be ‘Should we add another lie to the handful we’re already keeping up?’”

Josephine looked sympathetic, but said, “We need more allies beyond the Chantry, and this is a way to guarantee cooperation from anyone we approach for aid.”

“Fine,” Ciri said, less than graciously. “Find a way to word it so everyone gets at least some of what they want. Cullen and Owain, I assume you’re looking for more recruits? Josephine, allies and donations beyond the Chantry? And Leliana, you’ll want information on Corypheus and the Venatori?”

“That is the idea,” Leliana agreed. “I have called in favors and sent out spies, but this Corypheus seems to have appeared out of nowhere. I’d feel better if I knew more about what we were dealing with.”

A knock on the War Room door broke off Owain’s response. He looked around at Ciri and the gathered advisors, and at Ciri's nod, he went to the door and pulled it open.

“Down here,” Varric said irritably as Owain looked out over his head.

“Come in, Varric,” Ciri invited him.

Varric peered around Owain and blanched at the sight of Cassandra. “Oh, shit. No thank you. I, uh. Have some information for you, Songbird. Inquisitor. When we found out that the ‘Elder One’ was Corypheus, I sent a message to an old friend. They’ve crossed paths before, and she may know more about what he’s doing. She can help.”

Cassandra was quick on the uptake. “ _You_ ,” she growled.

Varric took a hasty step back. “She’s on the battlements, waiting to talk.”

“ _I’m going to wring your neck, you snake_!”

“Cassandra!” Ciri snapped.

Cassandra stopped advancing on Varric, turning on her with a snarl. “ _What_!”

"Can we please have a temporary moratorium on anyone getting in trouble for lying? Just – for the sake of all things being equal?”

Cassandra stared at her blankly, then let out a short, humorless laugh. “I am a hypocrite, aren’t I? After forgiving you and your companions so quickly.”

“Mind yourself,” Leliana murmured as Varric’s eyes lit up in curiosity.

“When it was still just an idea, the Divine had us looking for someone to lead the Inquisition. Leliana couldn’t find Queen Elissa. I couldn’t find Marian Hawke.” Cassandra shook her head. “I should have seen that Varric would protect his friend.”

Varric stopped retreating. He looked between Ciri and Cassandra with a spark of something in his eyes that set Ciri on edge. “If you’d found Hawke, she’d be dead like the rest of the Conclave. She’s been through enough.”

“And the Maker brought us His Hand to lead our Inquisition,” Cassandra sighed. “Go, Varric. It’s fine. Your neck is safe from me.”

“I’ll head out with you,” Ciri said. “Introduce me to Hawke?”

“Gladly,” Varric said.

“I’ll see you at supper,” she told Owain. “Cullen, Leliana, I’ll need a fuller report of what to expect in the Fallow Mire before I leave tomorrow.”

“I wouldn’t miss it,” Owain said warmly.

Cullen and Leliana nodded.

Ciri walked off down the hall with Varric, acutely aware of the glances he was sneaking at her. “What?” she asked after the fourth such look.

He shrugged expressively. “I’m not going to ask, Songbird,” he said. “But I have an eye for detail and inconsistency. I’m a writer. I observe people.”

“And?”

Varric held up a broad hand and began ticking things off on his fingers. “Your stories of your family and the things you used to get up to never mention Markham. No tales of the Grand Tourney, no talk of your father entering the Melee or watching famous knights jousting. Triss’ story is fine, but she should have at least a faint Starkhaven accent if she’d really spent that much time in their Circle growing up. And Red talks like a hero from a Blessed Age romance novel and dresses like no one I’ve ever met before in my life.”

“Varric –”

“I’m not asking,” he said again. “But if I’ve noticed the inconsistencies, you can bet our Qunari friend has, too.” He gave her a long, serious look. “Just one thing: you’re here to help?”

“That’s all we want to do.”

“Good enough for me," he said. At her look, he shrugged and added, "What? Did you forget the kinds of people I called friends back in Kirkwall? A few folks in the Inquisition who aren't exactly who they say they are doesn't rattle me."

“I will tell you," Ciri promised, feeling a sudden rush of fondness for Varric. She suspected, given how well he'd kept quiet about Hawke, that he'd take her secrets to his grave if she asked. “But – later?”

“Yeah,” he said kindly. “Later, Songbird. Hawke first.”

No one interrupted them on their walk back out of the main hall and across the grounds to the battlements, though several people waved or called out greetings. She waved back as they picked up their pace.

“You’re a popular lady today,” Varric said at the third call of ‘Maker bless ye, Inquisitor!’

“I’m going to forget my name at this rate,” Ciri complained.

“Not with Red and Triss around,” Varric disagreed. “Or the tallest Trevelyan.”

They climbed the crumbling stairs and Varric led her to a small landing just below a half-broken guard tower. A rangy, dark-haired woman in leather and mail paced back and forth impatiently. At the sound of their footsteps, she looked up and flashed them a quicksilver smile.

“You must be Ciri,” Hawke said, looking her up and down with vivid blue eyes set in a pale, fine-boned face. “Varric’s told me quite a lot about you – all of it good, I promise.”

Ciri shook her hand firmly. “Likewise. Now, he said you know about our Corypheus problem?”

“I’m not sure what advice I can give you that would top you dropping half a mountain on the bastard,” Hawke said lightly. “As solutions go, that one seems as permanent as the one I tried.”

Ciri toyed with her agate pendant. “I wish it had been permanent. First I fried him with lightning, then I dropped half a mountain on him. But our scouts saw his dragon fly away from the avalanche with something clutched in its claws, so we’re going on the assumption that he survived. You fought him?”

"Fought and killed him," Hawke confirmed. "The Wardens had him imprisoned, but he could somehow reach out and influence their minds. Varric, Anders, Carver, and I went deep into the prison and killed him. He was dead, I'm certain of it!"

“I believe you,” Ciri said. “But what’s this about the Wardens?”

“He got into their heads, messed with their minds,” Varric said grimly. “Turned them against each other.”

“He might be behind the Wardens’ disappearance,” Hawke suggested. “They may have fallen under his influence again.”

“Oh, brilliant,” Ciri muttered. She’d have a rough time breaking the news to Blackwall. And she’d need to have Leliana write to King Alistair at once to tell him to keep his head down. “Can this be fixed?”

“The Warden who helped us, Larius, seemed to snap out of it once Corypheus died the first time,” Hawke said. “So there may be hope.”

“‘May be’ isn’t a lot to go on,” Ciri said.

“But it’s a start.” Hawke looked out over the grounds, her eyes lingering on the advisors exiting the main hall. Cullen was the last to exit, and Hawke’s upper lip twitched in an aborted sneer. She took a deep breath and turned back to Ciri.

“I have a friend in the Wardens – Stroud,” Hawke said. “He was investigating something unrelated for me. The last time we spoke, he was worried about corruption in the Warden ranks.”

“If anything qualifies as corruption in the ranks, a darkspawn magister would certainly be it,” Varric said. “Did your friend disappear with the rest of them?”

“No. He told me he’d be hiding in an old smuggler’s cave near Crestwood.”

“Sounds like our next stop,” Varric said.

“Not quite.” Ciri looked to Hawke. “Will he be there long? We have business in the Fallow Mire. We leave on the morrow.”

“He’s good at keeping out of sight,” Hawke said. “A month’s delay shouldn’t be too onerous for him.”

“I’ll try not to keep him waiting too long.” She looked at Hawke curiously. “Why were you investigating the Wardens, if it wasn’t for Corypheus?”

Hawke leaned against the crumbling stone battlement and crossed her arms. “I thought if anyone might have answers to what was going on with the Templars in Kirkwall, it would be them. Merrill wrote to me after I left town with Anders. She said their behavior was different, that they’d started taking a new kind of lyrium –”

"Red?" Ciri interrupted, and Hawke nodded. "We've seen the end result in the army that attacked Haven. Apparently, a demon infiltrated Therinfal Redoubt and convinced them to start taking it, corrupted them for Corypheus."

“Samson’s involved,” Varric told Hawke. “He led Corypheus’ army.”

Hawke’s eyes widened at that. “Really? That’s hard to believe. He was just a run-down ex-Templar begging for coin for lyrium dust when I knew him, but he never bore mages any ill-will. Samson, leading Corypheus’ army? What a strange, small world. I would have thought – no, never mind.”

Cullen, Ciri guessed. But he’d proven himself a better man than she’d first thought. She wouldn’t wish red lyrium on her worst enemies, let alone Cullen.

Well. Perhaps she’d only not wish it on some of them for fear it would make them more dangerous. She was far from perfect.

“Will you share what you know with the advisors?” Ciri asked. “We can travel to Crestwood together after I return from the Fallow Mire.”

Hawke wrinkled her nose. “I’ve told you all of it, but if you think it would help, I suppose I can stay and lend your people my dubious expertise. So long as none of them ask me for Anders’ whereabouts.”

“I’ll pass the word along,” Ciri said.

“How is Blondie, by the way?” Varric asked with poorly feigned indifference.

“Oh, you know,” Hawke said, waving a hand. “Fretting. He’d be here now if it weren’t for Corypheus – and if he weren’t the most wanted man in Thedas. But you saw how that bastard affected his mind in the prison, Varric. I couldn’t risk him.”

Ciri understood the sentiment. “Thank you for your help,” she said simply, pressing down her curiosity. Her questions about Anders could wait.

“This is as much for me as it is for you,” Hawke deflected. “Corypheus should never have become your problem. He was my responsibility. This time, I’ll make sure his death sticks.”

As Hawke looked out over the grounds, her leanly muscled arms crossed over her leather cuirass, Ciri began to see how one woman made such waves in Kirkwall – and she could almost believe her words.

* * *

Ciri found Dorian and Maxwell where they’d said they would be, tucked away in a nook between two bookcases sorting through dusty tomes with looks of vague dismay on their faces.

“No – have one of the apprentices re-shelve it far, far away. Or have them lose it down a well.”

“For the love of Andraste, who donated this affront to academia?”

“The nameplate says ‘Property of Lady Dulci de Launcet.’ If I’m remembering my lessons correctly, she’s a minor Orlesian noble who lives in Kirkwall.”

“That explains her taste.”

Ciri cleared her throat, and the two men looked up from their self-appointed task.

“Ciri!” Dorian greeted her. “Or do you prefer ‘Inquisitor’ now?”

“Ciri will do fine, thank you,” she said. “How goes the sorting?”

Maxwell made a face and collapsed in an elegant sprawl into the armchair between the two bookshelves. “Lady Montilyet and I may have erred when we collected all the books from Haven’s Chantry without regard for what they were. Too many nobles looking to curry favor and divest themselves of old, outdated tomes donated entirely useless books to the Inquisition.”

“And don’t get us started on the Chantry’s idea of a good book,” Dorian said, nudging a thick book on the floor with a disdainful toe. “So far we’ve counted seven copies of the _Malefica Imperio_. Trite propaganda.”

“I’ve written to my old professors at Starkhaven University,” Maxwell said. “If they hear that all we have is Chantry rhetoric and castoffs from noble libraries, they’ll send books by the cartload just in the hope of improving our standards.”

“I would write to any of the dozen schools I attended over the years, but I’m afraid I burned my bridges rather thoroughly when I came south,” Dorian said. “And I doubt they’d be keen to assist the Inquisition.”

"Do either of you have any ideas on where to start looking for information on Corypheus?" Ciri asked. "Maxwell, you studied history, and Dorian...I don’t mean to offend you, but –”

“But he _is_ from Tevinter, yes?” Dorian interrupted. He sighed. “You know, the Imperium doesn’t even acknowledge the South’s version of how the Blights began, with the Magisters Sidereal entering the Golden City and blackening it. Yet here we are, with undeniable proof. Corypheus, a darkspawn, in the flesh.”

“What a few magisters did over a thousand years ago has nothing to do with you,” Ciri said.

"True, but it has a great deal to do with far too many of my countrymen, who seem all too happy to help a darkspawn create chaos and destruction if it brings them some small measure of power."

Maxwell reached out with his foot and nudged Dorian’s ankle. “That’s why you’re here with us, and not there with them.”

“That, and the company’s not half bad,” Dorian said, shaking off his dark frown to smile at Maxwell. “It almost makes up for the lackluster selection of alcohol.”

“I’m not personally able to help much,” Maxwell told Ciri. “My focus was old elven history. The Long Walk, and the elven culture of the Dales before the Second Exalted March. But I do have professors at the university I can write to.”

“Corypheus isn’t even a proper name,” Dorian said. “It means ‘Conductor’ in Ancient Tevene, and was the traditional title for the high priest of Dumat. I’m sure if we did some digging into the Magisterium’s genealogical records, we’d turn up a real person behind the monster.”

“Is that something you can do?” Ciri asked.

“I have a friend or two left in Tevinter I can call upon, though they may need something in return.”

Ciri considered that and nodded. “As long as it’s within reason.”

Dorian nodded back. “Splendid! I’ll write to Mae at once.”

She smiled, then faltered as a thought struck her. Maxwell raised an eyebrow.

“Something bothering you, Lady Ciri?”

“I’m not sure how you’ll take this, Dorian,” she said slowly, “but I’ve been told I’m to pass judgment on Alexius.”

“Ah.”

She watched as Dorian’s handsome face creased in sorrow, and Maxwell stood from the chair and placed a comforting hand on his back.

“After what we learned in the future – after what we saw there – I wouldn’t blame you if you executed him,” Dorian said. “He was a good man once, but that’s a small thing in comparison to his crimes.”

Ciri shook her head, banishing the images of death before they could rise before her eyes. “I don’t know if I can execute a man for things that didn’t come to pass.”

Dorian wilted in relief. “I can’t get involved, Ciri. I’m too close to him. And to be honest, I’m furious with him, too. Thank you for considering my feelings on the matter, but whatever you decide, I’ll accept it.”

“I’ll help Lady Montilyet come up with a list of Ferelden laws he actually broke,” Maxwell offered, “so the Chantry doesn’t stick their noses in and add something like ‘apostasy’ to the list of charges.”

“Thank you.” She looked between the two of them and added quietly, “Just so there are no secrets between the two of you, Maxwell, Dorian knows the truth of how Triss, Olgierd, and I came here.”

“Is that why Owain suddenly received that promotion?” Maxwell asked.

Ciri winced. “No, I told Dorian after we time-traveled. But there’s a story behind that promotion. Suffice it to say, Cullen is justifiably angry at Triss, Raúl, your brother, and your parents.”

Understanding lit Maxwell’s eyes. “But they didn’t break out the pitchforks and torches, so I assume otherwise it all went well?”

“Well enough. We’ll see if our luck holds.”

“Speaking of,” Dorian said, “will you need me for any ventures out of Skyhold soon? Much as I’m enjoying the pleasures of this library, I could use a change of scenery.”

“I leave for the Fallow Mire to rescue a group of soldiers from hostile Avvar tomorrow,” Ciri offered.

“It’s a bog, Dorian,” Maxwell told him.

“Perhaps on your next trip, then,” Dorian said hastily.

She left them behind with the stacks of unwanted books, laughing quietly. As she began to descend the circular stairs into the rotunda, she looked back over her shoulder. Dorian slumped into the vacated chair, one hand covering his eyes. She watched as Maxwell said something, and a reluctant smile tugged at Dorian’s lips.

 _Good_ , she thought and set off toward the Commander's office with renewed energy. It was getting close to supper, and Owain was sure to be available by now. After everything that had happened, his warm, steady presence was exactly what she needed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for your feedback! I like knowing I've entertained you with an update.


	31. Undead and Avvar

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ciri travels to the Fallow Mire to rescue Inquisition soldiers. The Iron Bull pries, a rift behaves oddly, and Solas makes a suggestion that frightens her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beta-read by brightspot149. Thank you!

Ciri adjusted Zephyr’s girth beneath Dennet’s watchful eye, frowning a bit at the borrowed saddle. Her fine tack from the Continent hadn’t survived the assault on Haven, and the seat to the Ferelden-made saddle was shaped differently than the Ofieri stock saddle Geralt had gifted her a few years back. But it would do for now, just as the loaned sword from the armory would suffice until a new blade was made for her.

Olgierd walked Ifrit to her side, his big gelding’s reins in one hand. He cradled an oil-spotted cotton cloth in the other and was chewing something with apparent relish. At her curious look, he held out his burden.

“Nibbles?” he offered.

The scent of fried dough, melted cheese, onions, and potatoes wafted her way, and her stomach rumbled despite the porridge she’d had not an hour before.

"Don't mind if I do," she said and plucked a warm pierog from the cloth. She groaned with pleasure as the flavors burst across her tongue. “Is this what you were doing in the kitchens yesterday?”

“I had a hankering,” he said. “Can you believe they’d never had anything like it before? I gave them the description yesterday, and one of the cooks ran me down with the kerchief this morning. They’re calling them ‘hand dumplings.’” He bit into another pierog and hummed a few bars of a song she thought she recognized.

After a beat, it came to her, and she laughed and joined in. “Oh my maiden most fine, do you know of my dreams? That I do so love you, and pierogi with cheese!”

“Wot’re you singin’ for?” Sera asked as she bounded up. She sniffed the air, her eyes bright. “Wot’s that smell?”

“Dumplings,” Olgierd said, leaning around Ifrit’s big barrel chest to hold out the cloth. “Care for one?”

Ciri watched as Sera lit up at the simple pleasure, bouncing a bit on her toes. She crammed one into her mouth whole and immediately reached for another. Olgierd, chuckling a little, parted with another piece of his odd breakfast without protest.

She was relieved to see him in good spirits after his worry yesterday. His conversation with Josephine must have gone well, better than well, even. The melancholy she’d seen in him since their introduction months ago had been slowly but surely fading, but today it was naught but the faintest shadow in his eyes.

The Iron Bull stumped into the stables, stretching and yawning.

“Boss, next time we have to leave for the ass-end of Ferelden, can we do it at a less shitty hour?” he complained.

Despite his show of tiredness, Ciri could see that his single eye was as keen and alert as ever.

“If you ask Dorian, all of Ferelden is the ass end,” she quipped. “You’ll just have to wake up earlier.”

“You’re a cruel woman.”

He turned to choose a mount from one of the stalls, and Ciri’s friendly smile faded, Varric’s warning from yesterday echoing in her ears. If Varric, an author, had noticed inconsistencies in their story, then it was all but guaranteed that the Qunari spy had picked up on them as well. She’d need to be careful with him. She only had his word he’d make sure Leliana approved what he sent back to his handlers. And spies – spies like Tawny Owl and Vattier de Rideaux – were inherently dangerous.

Solas was the last to arrive, and he greeted Ciri quietly before joining the Iron Bull at the stalls. Ciri saw Dennet eyeing the Iron Bull’s oversized form worriedly, and she patted Zephyr’s neck and murmured to him, “We’re fine here, Horsemaster.”

“Maybe Daverus,” Dennet muttered to himself as he walked over to the Iron Bull. “Or Korth.”

Solas and the Iron Bull were seen to quickly, and Sera took care of her own gray mare. Ciri gave Zephyr’s tack one last look over as Olgierd finished his breakfast and stuffed the oily cloth in his saddlebags.

Her friend cursed under his breath and raked a hand through his growing hair. “Have you a hair tie I can borrow? It won’t stay to the side any longer, and I can’t see through this mess.”

Ciri dug into her bags. “I’m sure razors and scissors are on Josephine’s list of necessary purchases once Skyhold is ready for merchants, or most of the men will revolt.”

“Even the commander and your man are looking bristly of late,” Olgierd said as he accepted the proffered leather cord. “I envy our elven friend here. I imagine these days it might be quite useful not to be able to grow a beard.”

Solas, leading over his saddled dapple-gray gelding, raised an eyebrow at that. “It’s strange to hear such a sentiment from a human. Especially from one with such well-cultivated facial hair."

“It’s a fleeting envy,” Olgierd assured him with a good-humored smirk.

He gathered the growing copper strands atop his head and tied them into a short tail in the back. Combined with the thick stubble on the sides of his head and the three extra weeks of growth to his beard and mustache, his appearance was markedly different. Softer, perhaps, yet also wilder. No less dangerous, but lacking the cultivated impression of menace.

Sera and the Iron Bull joined them, the Qunari holding the reins to a massive black stallion that rivaled Ifrit in size. Sera’s mare had lost most of the red ribbons in her mane, but one still stubbornly clung on near her right ear like a crumpled beggartick blossom.

“Look at this guy,” the Iron Bull said, patting the stallion’s neck. “Korth the Mountain Father. He’s even bigger than me.”

Dennet grumbled. “I should send you with a pack pony, Inquisition. Your ox-man’s too big to ride one of my mounts burdened.”

“Whatever you suggest,” Ciri said with a brief frown at the strange name for the Iron Bull. The big Qunari didn’t even blink, though, so she let it pass unremarked.

“Ever hear of nuggalopes?” the Iron Bull asked. “They’re these giant horned nugs even bigger than horses. Pretty uncommon, but I think there’s a merchant in Val Royeaux that might have a line on where to get one.”

“Nugs?” Sera echoed. “The ugly little naked things with the hands and the beady eyes? Only bigger? Eugh.”

“Better than ruining a good horse,” Olgierd said. He seemed to share Dennet’s misgivings. “It’s something to consider.”

Dennet returned with a sturdy little dun pony, and packs and weapons were quickly redistributed. They mounted up and gave Dennet a brief farewell, walking the horses to the gatehouse in the quiet of the early morning. Few were there to see them leave. Only the staff and the early risers were up at this hour.

“Ciri!”

She drew Zephyr to a halt in the shadow of the gatehouse and leaned down in her saddle to greet Triss, who was still knuckling sleep from her eyes.

“Are you sure you don’t want to come?” she asked.

Triss shook her head. “Adan is going to help Evelyn and me get started with the garden here, and Harritt is going to make some equipment for us so we can begin our project for the former Templars. You should be fine with Solas along.”

Solas inclined his head in agreement. “We will take every precaution that the anchor doesn’t worsen.”

“Take care, Ciri,” Triss said, reaching up and squeezing her hand. “Come back safely.”

“It’s just a plague-stricken bog filled with hostile Avvar barbarians,” Ciri said airily. “What could possibly go wrong?”

Sera cackled. “Oh, we’re proper bollocksed now!”

* * *

The scouts’ camp in the Fallow Mire was set well back from the waters, but the fetid scent of swamp water and decay hung in the air even by the tents. Sera gagged theatrically as she dismounted and handed off her mare’s reins to a waiting scout.

“Phwaw, somethin’ died out there. Urgh!”

“Several dozen someones, actually,” Scout Harding told her. “A plague swept through here last year. Survivors abandoned the village, and the dead were left to rot. And with the rifts reaching even out to here, demons came through and possessed the corpses.”

The Iron Bull leveled a flat stare at Ciri. “Yeah, Boss. What could possibly go wrong.”

Ciri swung down from Zephyr’s back and smiled in the face of his exasperation. “Afraid of demons, Iron Bull?”

She certainly didn’t blame him.

“That’s the sane reaction to a demon,” he said. “The regular ones are just chaotic and violent, but the dangerous ones mess with your head, try to screw with your thoughts. There’s no such thing as a good demon.”

“You don’t seem to have a problem with Cole,” Solas commented.

The Iron Bull grimaced. “He says a lot of weird shit. But he’s like a squirrelly little kid, not some horror from the Fade.”

“I don’t know that I’ve met Cole yet,” Olgierd said. “Aside from when he arrived in Haven, that is.”

“It’s creepy,” Sera said with a shudder. “Always saying daft shite and staring with its stupid frigging eyes. Tell it to leave me alone or I’ll stick an arrow between ‘em so it can’t look at me anymore.”

“I’ll tell him,” Ciri placated her. She honestly didn’t know how much use it would be if Cole had fixated on ‘helping’ Sera. “So, Scout Harding. Possessed corpses?”

“Stay out of the water,” Harding warned, nodding. “The Avvar are farther in. We saw a beacon a little deeper into the bog – no idea what that’s for, but you may want to investigate. The Avvar leader has our soldiers locked up tight in Hargrave Keep. We couldn’t get a good look. There were too many undead and Avvar out that way.”

“Thanks for the information,” Ciri said.

“Oh, and keep an eye out for bogfishers,” Harding added. “They’re normally pretty docile, but when they’re riled, they’re vicious, and they’re tough.”

One of the scouts waved Ciri off as she went to unload the pack pony.

“I’ve got it, Your Worship. We’ll take care of the horses. You lot had best get moving before those Avvar bastards change their minds.”

“Thank you, Scout…”

“Cyra,” the scout said, her eyes brightening at Ciri’s inquiry.

“Scout Cyra. Don’t worry. We’ll get our people back.”

“I believe it, Your Worship.”

Solas drew close to her side as they set off toward the abandoned village. “Have you made a final decision about your use of magic?”

“I hadn’t,” she told him, reflexively closing her marked hand. “Why?”

“You’ve proven to be an adept student and a talented young mage,” he said. “I understand that Triss believes your newfound skill to be a function of the mark aiding your magic, but I disagree. And with your Fade-step removed from your range of spells, it would be best if you didn’t limit yourself further.”

“And if Triss is right?” Ciri asked. “If using spells makes removing the anchor more difficult?”

“It shouldn’t, and if it does, it would barely hinder us,” Solas said. “Triss’ idea of transferring the magic into stone discs is a novel one, and quite laudatory should the power still be usable once removed.”

Ciri smiled. Lady Yennefer _was_ brilliant.

“All right,” she agreed with no small degree of caution. “We’ll try for now. If the mark worsens, I’ll stop using magic completely.”

“Your caution is understandable,” he said. He paused, a curious, almost wary expression on his face.

“What is it?”

“There is another option,” he began to say.

“Ah, shit!” the Iron Bull called out as a strange squelching and wheezing filled the air.

Ciri drew her borrowed sword and darted forward, spellfire and arrows whipping past her as Solas and Sera took aim at the walking corpses. The Iron Bull charged by with a roar, cleaving the nearest corpse in half with his greataxe.

She blocked a blow from a rusty blade and struck out hard. The corpse staggered forward a pace and fell, its head hanging from a few rotting tendons.

Olgierd ran another through with his saber. Solas smashed the last two into the mud with bone-shattering force using the same pale green spell he’d cast back in Haven. The one impaled on Olgierd’s blade reached for him, withered arms flailing, still making that dreadful wheezing noise. He kicked it free and drove his sword into it again. It shuddered and finally stilled.

"Stay on the alert, everyone," Ciri ordered them quietly. "Solas, we'll pick this up later."

“Of course, _lethallin_.”

They proceeded past the empty huts and deeper into the bog, treading carefully down the narrow, creaking wooden walkway. A heavy mist lay close to the ground, obscuring their steps, and the rank-smelling air was still and soundless. Not even the buzzing of insects broke the silence; it was too late in the year for the miserable clouds of midges and mosquitoes that could normally be found in a place such as this.

“So, Boss,” the Iron Bull said as they passed a dilapidated cabin. “Adoption. How does that work for humans?”

“The same way it works for everyone else, I expect,” Ciri replied cautiously. She wondered what his angle was. “Why? How does it work for Qunari?”

“Yeah, adoption’s not universal,” he said. “Under the Qun, we’re raised in units by tamassrans who watch us to see what jobs we’re suited for. I liked hitting things, but I was also good at keeping secrets and telling stories, so…”

“They had you figured for spy work early,” Ciri guessed. “Did you like that? Knowing what life had in store for you?”

“Think of it like carving a big hunk of marble,” the Iron Bull explained as he stepped carefully from the squishy ground to the next walkway. “The chips are flying off, but it’s unfinished. Raw. Then one day they knock the last piece of crap off, and there you are. Your real shape.” He grunted softly. “That was a good day.”

Olgierd interrupted, pointing past Ciri’s shoulder to a roughly carved pillar just ahead on an elevated patch of dry land. “I believe that’s the beacon Scout Harding spoke of.”

They tramped up the slope to the strange pillar.

“Curious,” Solas commented. “This brazier is meant to hold veilfire. _Lethallin_ , you remember how to summon it, do you not?”

Ciri recalled his instructions from the ruins in the Hinterlands and raised her marked hand to open the connection to the Veil. It gave a warning twinge, and she switched to her right. The connection to the Veil was clumsier, less natural that way, but still she managed to tease out a tenuous link to light the brazier with ghostly blue fire.

“Buggering shite!” Sera yelped as a bright green light flew from the brazier and spiraled almost playfully above their heads. “Wot’s that?”

“A spirit,” Solas said, not taking his eyes off the light. “We seem to have released something.”

The light swooped above the path ahead, flaring brightly, and between one blink and the next, a terror demon took its place. It stretched its spindly limbs, turned its beetle black eyes their way, and screeched. Behind them, the water stirred. Olgierd cursed.

“More undead.”

A dozen half-rotted corpses dragged themselves from their watery graves, wielding waterlogged bows and rusting swords. Ciri unsheathed her sword as the demon leaped.

It landed in their midst with a wave of force that sent them sprawling. Ciri turned her fall into a controlled somersault. She came back to her feet to leap at it with a slash to its belly. The Iron Bull whooped and charged into the undead, axe flying. Olgierd regained his footing and parried the demon’s claws, holding it back so Ciri could strike out again.

Above the demon’s screeches, Sera laughed and counted aloud as she nocked and loosed her arrows into the crowd of corpses. Solas released a giant wave of green crystalline energy that smashed through three of the undead at once, sending them flying back into the water.

Olgierd landed the final blow on the terror demon. As it dissolved into a puddle of ichor and muck, the last of the undead fell like puppets with cut strings.

“Huh.” The Iron Bull wiped the edge of his greataxe on a clump of moss growing by the water. “Looks like that demon had control of some of these assholes. We find more beacons, lure them on to land, kill them quicker.”

“Or we don’t mess with the magic shite, and the corpse things stay in the water where they belong,” Sera countered. “That’s what magic gets you. First it’s la-di-da, all rainbows and butterflies. Then, you’ve got demons up your arse.”

“Demons ‘up our arses’ or not, our people may have to return here,” Ciri said, amused. “The more of the undead we kill for good, the better it will be for them.”

“Return here?” Sera echoed, looking at their surroundings skeptically. “To the plague bog?”

Olgierd stifled a laugh. “Oh, I don’t know. Can’t you just picture the Inquisition’s new outpost? They’ll put it just...there,” he said, pointing to a half-fallen hut in the distance. “Lovely rustic ambiance, friendly neighbors, the scent of sweet blooms in the air –”

Sera shrieked with disgusted laughter. “You’re barmy, you are!”

Smiling faintly, Solas picked up a metal torch from beside the pillar that Ciri hadn’t noticed earlier. He held it to the blue flames and it caught fire quickly.

“We don’t need to make a decision immediately,” he said, “but a light in the dark may be helpful.”

“Good thinking,” the Iron Bull said with an approving nod.

They set off down the path again, their steps lit by the flickering fire. The mist caught and scattered the light, making the fog swirling around their feet take on an eerie blue glow.

After a minute, the Iron Bull spoke up. “You’re good at that. Redirecting a conversation. We teach that in the Ben-Hassrath.” His single eye glinted in the torchlight. “I ask about adoption and end up talking about the Qun and myself. Nice work.”

“And you keep reminding me you’re a spy, which doesn’t make me any more inclined to open up to you,” Ciri said tartly. The back of her neck prickled beneath his gaze.

The Iron Bull chuckled. “I’ve got a feeling that fact’s never far from your thoughts, Boss. Honesty’s probably the best policy where you’re concerned.”

“How much of what I tell you will end up on your superiors’ desks?” she asked. “I don’t want the Qun prying into my life because I got a little too friendly with their agent.”

The Iron Bull traced one thick finger across the left side of his chest in a crude ‘X.’ “Not a word,” he swore. “This is just friends talking about their childhoods.”

He looked at Ciri expectantly, and she sighed. _This is a terrible idea_. “My mother drowned at sea when I was very young. My grandparents raised me until I was almost twelve. They...passed, unexpectedly, and I went to find Geralt, who was next in line for guardianship. He and Lady Yennefer took care of me for years, and I came to see them as parents over time.”

“And your father?” Solas asked. “Why did he not raise you?”

“My birth father is not a good man,” Ciri said in a very final sort of way. “The less said about him, the better.”

“Fair enough,” the Iron Bull said, shrugging his massive shoulders. “Hey, I think I see another pillar. Let’s light it up!”

* * *

They ended up using the veilfire pillar after all, and after a short, difficult fight, pressed on deeper into the bog. Everywhere they looked there were signs of abandoned civilization. Collapsed huts, rotting sacks of dried goods, discarded journals, and empty chests – Ciri flipped through a book on Andrastian cults and wondered what sort of peasant would own such a thing. 

Such a book out here in a bog in the middle of nowhere reminded her of Vysogota in a way, and the thought hurt distantly, like the memory of an old, well-healed injury. She wondered if she’d killed the owner a final time, or if they were still out there in the water, a mindless, possessed shell of their former self.

She set the book down gently and left the damaged hut behind, leading her companions down the trail toward the keep. Olgierd gripped her shoulder and drew her to a halt as a telltale emerald light began to shine through the trees on the path ahead.

“We’re not alone,” he murmured. “You see?”

She stepped to the side for a better view and swore quietly. Just around the bend, a massive hooded man in painted hide and fur armor stood beneath a quiescent rift, a heavy maul over his shoulder. He seemed to be watching the rift with serenity at odds with his warlike appearance.

“Aye, I see you,” the man called out. “You’re safe from me, lowlanders. My kin may want you dead, but that’s not my job.”

Ciri clenched her marked hand into a tight fist as they warily approached, forcing down the magic as it sparked in response to the rift. “Are our people still alive?”

“A few scrapes and bruises, nothing more,” the giant barbarian told her. “They put up a good fight, they did. Someone’s trained them well.”

Ciri felt a knot of tension release from between her shoulders. “Why did your leader take our soldiers hostage in the first place?” she demanded.

“Not our chieftain,” he corrected her. “His brat. Ingvi Movranson.” He spat on the marshy ground between his feet. “Calls himself ‘the Hand of Korth’ these days, great lumbering idiot.”

The Iron Bull chuckled, and at the barbarian’s questioning look, said, “Oh. That’s my horse’s name. Korth.”

“Can’t say which would offend the Mountain Father more,” the barbarian said with a grunt. “A lowlander’s beast of burden, or an overweening fool’s self-proclaimed legend mark.” He shook his head in disgust. “It’s not my business what the brat does. This is.”

Ciri followed his laconic gesture to the sleeping rift above their heads. “You’re studying it? Why? Are you a scholar? A mage?”

“Do I look like one of your pampered Circle folk?” the man scoffed. “I’m a shaman, lowlander, a Skywatcher. I’m trying to figure out the message the Lady of the Skies is sending with this strange magic.”

“They’re called rifts,” Solas said. “They’re an effect of a magical explosion some months ago in the highlands of Ferelden.”

The Skywatcher scoffed again. “I know _that_ , lowlander. It’s the meaning that interests me. Can you not read the warnings the Lady writes in the air? See her message in the flocks of carrion-eaters? Dark times are ahead.”

Ciri considered that. If he’d gleaned even a hint of demonic armies or imperial assassinations from the movements of rifts or the flight patterns of vultures, she’d eat Cole’s hat. But there was a core of truth to his words. Dark times were most certainly upon them.

“Shall we deal with this?” she suggested, waving at the rift. “It seems stable enough, but there’s no telling when that might change.”

“Aye, your god marked you, didn’t he?” the Skywatcher said, looking at her with keen interest. “Let’s see, then. What does a lowlander god’s favor look like?”

Ciri unclenched her left hand and raised it to the rift as her companions spread out and unsheathed their weapons. She braced herself and shoved magic down and out the mark, sending it streaming through the air in a gleaming, glittering rope to latch on to the silent rift. It came almost too easily, rushing through in an eager torrent.

Her hand spasmed, stinging and tingling, and she yanked at the rope of magic. The rift tore open with the sound of grinding glass, and jagged shards shot from the tear. She stepped back hastily, sword in hand.

Strands of emerald light pushed free from the rift, touching down on the soft ground and sizzling quietly. Then, bizarrely, something on the other side _yanked_ and one of the strands went flying back through the tear as demons leaped from the points of contact.

“Did you see that?” Sera demanded as she shot a wraith through its insubstantial head.

“Focus!” Ciri snapped.

She coated her blade in frost and advanced on the rage demon. It swiped at her and she danced away. Her blade flicked out to slash at it – once, twice – and she ducked its molten claws, the heat searing her face.

It surged forward with a deep growl, claws outstretched. She spun away, darting to the side, and thrust at its formless middle. The ice-coated blade sank deep. It roared and flailed at her, burning claws raking her chainmail jacket.

She heaved the blade free and struck again, wincing from the heat. A final, bestial roar and it fell, leaving scorch marks and ichor at her feet.

She glanced around as the rift calmed momentarily. The Iron Bull stood over a pair of undead, both lying still and broken at his feet. Olgierd’s blade was coated in green ichor. No enemies remained.

The rift pulsed and the streams of light shot out again. Then, once more, something within the rift gave a violent tug, and one of the streams flew back in. Ciri could almost hear an echo of a ghostly laugh coming from within the rift.

“I’m not funnin’,” Sera insisted as the demons materialized again. “Somethin’s messin’ with us!”

Ciri threw herself into the fight once more. She flung an arcane bolt at a wraith and followed with a sweeping slash of her sword. It fizzled into nothingness. She turned to find another enemy.

Sera yelped as two corpses flanked her, and Olgierd spun to throw a fistful of fire at the one nearest him. It lit up like a bonfire in the gloom of the marsh. Sera leaped away, loosing an arrow at the other as she went. She gave Olgierd a wild-eyed look as the burning corpse collapsed.

As the last demon fell, she raised her marked hand to the rift again and pushed open the connection again. With a shove and a twist of her wrist, she forced it closed for good. As before, the magic was eager to obey.

“You have a friend on the other side, lowlander,” the Skywatcher said. “Your god favors you twice over.”

“Yeah, what was with that?” the Iron Bull asked.

Solas looked worried. “Any spirit looking to aid us is in grave danger by venturing so near to a rift. The tumult may drive them mad, or pull them through against their will. None of my friends would be so foolhardy. _Lethallin_ , have you made any acquaintances in the Fade that would be brash enough to try such a thing?”

“I don’t believe so.” Ciri’s nights were filled with vivid dreams, but aside from her dream of Skyhold, they were entirely normal. Just recollections of some of the best parts of her past, nothing more.

Olgierd looked at the space where the rift had been with a considering expression. “I wonder,” he murmured.

“Olgierd?” Ciri asked.

“I suspect I’m imagining things. It will keep.”

“Hmph.” The Skywatcher considered Ciri and nodded. “You’re not bad for a lowlander, god-marked. Stay safe out there. My kin won’t show mercy.”

They left the big shaman behind, heading ever deeper into the bog. Solas nodded at Ciri’s hand as they walked.

“Any changes?”

She flexed it carefully and examined the lines of light criss-crossing it. “No.”

“Tell me if it does.”

“I will.”

Sera seemed conflicted, shooting unsure glances at Olgierd, and he raised an eyebrow at her.

“Something on my face, dear?” he asked as they jumped from a creaking walkway to soggy ground.

She snorted. “Just a dead ferret.”

“Can’t be helped for now, I fear. What’s on your mind?”

“You don’t seem like one, with the sword an’ the scars an’ all,” she said, “but you’re really a mage. A proper robe. I dunno. It’s just...weird. Don’t go bustin’ out in demons, yeah?”

“You have my word,” he said solemnly, eyes laughing.

“Shut it, I’m serious!”

“So am I. Demonic possession sounds uncomfortable.”

“Weirdy.” She stuck her tongue out at him and relaxed, laughing a little.

The Iron Bull was the last to make the leap, and he brightened at the sight of the pillar ahead. “Hey, more fighting. Boss, I’ve changed my mind. This place isn’t too bad.”

“So glad you approve,” Ciri said in amusement as she approached the brazier.

* * *

“Everyone still in one piece?” Ciri called out as the gates to Hargrave Keep slammed shut below her feet.

A chorus of affirmative answers, some wearier than others, came back to her in a ragged chorus.

“Good.”

She stared over the edge of the wall at the path below, still teeming with undead. Dozens of them, all mindlessly throwing themselves at the bars of the gate. She wasn’t looking forward to the return trip to camp.

The beacons had proved useful, though the terror demons were twice as frustrating to fight with her teleportation denied to her. And the closer they'd drawn to the keep, the more Avvar they'd encountered. None of them had been as friendly as the big shaman and had attacked their party on sight.

The last stretch toward the keep they'd run flat out, Sera firing backwards and Solas, Olgierd, and Ciri using magic to keep the undead swarming them at bay while the Iron Bull led the charge. Of course, the safety of the keep was relative. A group of Avvar had greeted them with steel and war cries. Trapped between the two groups of enemies, a fight was inevitable.

Sera wandered down the walkway past Ciri, her eyes on the sturdy guardhouse door. “Wot’s in there, d’you reckon? Think the nobles left anything good behind?”

“We have time to find out,” Ciri said with a shrug. “I could do with a moment to catch my breath.”

“Same here," the Iron Bull agreed. "Hey, Solas, toss me a potion, would you? One of those bastards stuck me pretty good on my blind side."

Solas fished a potion from his satchel. He gave the Iron Bull’s side an assessing look and said, “Are you sure you wouldn’t prefer a poultice?”

“Nah. I slap something topical on, enemies will spot weakness and target it.”

The Iron Bull drained the flask as Sera deftly finished picking the lock on the door, and with a triumphant “Ha!” she shoved it open. Curious, Ciri followed her in.

Sera laughed giddily in the center of the room, spinning around to stare at the ornate chests lining the walls. “Lookit! I knew there had to be somethin’ good!”

“The bann and her people abandoned the castle during the plague, and the Avvar clearly have no idea this stuff even exists or they’d have looted it bare,” Ciri said.

“So we’re takin’ it, right?” Sera asked eagerly.

Ciri hated to dash her hopes. “To Josephine,” she amended. “Who can send King Alistair a letter saying we recovered one of his noble subjects’ property at great personal expense.”

Sera stared at her, then snorted with laughter. “An’ then they owe us! Brilliant! That’s almost as good as keepin’ it for ourselves. Nice thinkin’, Just Plain Ciri.”

“We’ll come back for it later,” Ciri said, taking one last look around the room. “After we deal with this ‘Hand of Korth.’”

The Iron Bull spoke up as they descended back into the courtyard.“Hey, since you’re the Hand of the Maker, and he’s the Hand of Korth –”

“Mm, I don’t like where this is going,” Ciri said.

“Does that mean one Hand doesn’t know what the other’s doing?”

She sighed as he guffawed at his own joke.

“No, no – I’ve got it! Hand to Hand combat!”

Sera cackled. Ciri looked to Olgierd, but he just shook his head in amusement.

“Oh, come on, Boss, it’s pretty funny,” the Iron Bull said.

Ciri shook her head and smiled. “We might not fight, you know.”

“No?”

“We might shake Hands and make up.”

The Iron Bull laughed loudly, horned head thrown back. “Ah, damn. You should come to the tavern and have drinks with the boys and me. See who can break Krem with shitty jokes the fastest.”

“One thing at a time,” Ciri said as they trekked up the grassy slope toward the small keep.

Ciri hated to admit it, even just to herself, but the spy was growing on her. She knew much of his behavior was calculated to be disarming, but damned if it wasn’t working. She could only hope that she was growing on him as well.

But spies with torn loyalties were doubly dangerous.

She frowned and walked faster.

Two Avvar women rushed to attack them as they crested the rise, already alert to their presence thanks to the laughter. Ciri parried an axe blow and struck out hard with her sword. The woman leaped back nimbly, and Sera’s arrow caught her in the eye. The other one collapsed with a gurgle, the Iron Bull’s greataxe buried in her chest.

Ciri dragged their fallen bodies to lie by the small fire, straightening their sprawled limbs and pulling Sera’s arrow free.

“Why do you do that?” the Iron Bull asked. “They wouldn’t.”

“I don’t want to be the sort of person who doesn’t respect my enemies in death,” she said simply. She smoothed down their eyelids and stepped back. “I don’t always get the opportunity, but I’ll take it when it comes.”

“It’s damp, but there’s kindling aplenty,” Olgierd said. “We can come back after we deal with Movranson and the rest of his men.”

“I believe the Avvar have different traditions,” Solas said. “‘Sky burials,’ if I remember correctly.”

“Then we’ll leave them for the Skywatcher.” Ciri cast the heroic aura spell and felt a wave of energy wash over her. “Come.”

She led the way into the battered keep. The past year had not been kind to the building; the front doors and windows were long gone, and the mortar holding the stone together was crumbling and falling in places. The roof was a patchwork of holes, and the flagstone floor was covered in remnants of broken furniture. One giant, cracked wooden rafter lay abandoned in a dark corner.

At the top of the stairs at the other end of the ruined hall stood half a dozen Avvar armed with bows and axes. A man near the size of the Skywatcher raised a maul above his head and pointed it at her. “Hand of the Maker! I knew you’d come! Face me, god-marked! I am the Hand of Korth!”

“Does your father know what you get up to when he’s not around to do the thinking for you?” Ciri asked mockingly.

Ingvi Movranson took the stairs in two bounds, roaring. “No _lowlander_ will judge me! Let my brothers chase Tevinters! I challenge the might of your god with mine – I am the worthy son!”

Solas’ barrier fell over her just in time, and she ducked as Movranson’s maul swept over her head so close it ruffled her hair. She somersaulted forward, lashing out at the tendons in his knees. He stumbled, growled, and redoubled his attack.

There was no parrying, no room to breathe. She danced. Backwards, forwards, twisting, dodging, and ducking. A slice in, a quick retreat, a fast pirouette. The man might have named himself, but it was apt. She may as well have been fighting a mountain.

His maul descended again. She spun away, shoving him back a step with a mind blast. The sounds of fighting faded around them, and she realized distantly that Movranson was likely the last one left.

 _Or I am_.

She darted in – a mistimed step. His maul smashed into her armored ribs and sent her sprawling painfully back. The cries of her companions rang in her ears. She raised a hand and flung out an arcane bolt as Movranson advanced on her with bared teeth. He shouted and staggered.

She regained her footing, side smarting. He swung at her wildly, breathing heavily. She shot in again, ducking the swing, and plunged her sword deep into his unarmored armpit. Movranson howled in pain and grabbed at her, bruisingly tight, then fell still clutching her arm.

The maul hit the stone floor with a dull clang. Ciri pried her arm free from his grip and watched the light fade from Movranson’s eyes, blood pooling beneath him.

“I hope this was the glorious death in battle you hoped for,” she told his body as she lightly massaged her arm.

Everywhere she looked in Thedas she found odd parallels to the Continent. She couldn’t say the Avvar were entirely akin to the Skelligers she’d spent her childhood summers and winters with, but their warlike ferocity and multiple gods did ring familiar to her. Ingvi Movranson would have been in good company among Clan Drummond’s warriors.

Olgierd came to her side, his saber slick with blood. “I feared you’d be disadvantaged, with your teleportation denied to you. I should have known better.”

“I very nearly was,” Ciri said. “Have the soldiers been found?”

“Sera’s picking the lock now.”

As he spoke, cries of relief came from across the hall. Ciri looked over to see a dozen grubby, battered soldiers stumble past Sera, staring around at the scattered dead.

“I knew she’d come!” one of them whispered in a carrying voice.

“Aye, Her Worship is a good ‘un.”

Ciri nodded to them and looked up at Olgierd. “Lend me a hand?”

“Of course.”

They laid out the fallen Avvar in the center of the hall, their weapons by their side. After seeing them struggle with Movranson’s bulk, the others came to help, and the grim chore was over in a matter of minutes.

“There are undead just outside the gate,” Ciri told the soldiers, “but the path back to the forward camp should be clear after that. Will you head out with us or stay here to rest a while?”

“We’ll stick with you, Your Worship,” the woman who’d whispered said. “But we’ll need weapons.”

“Take theirs.”

Hands dropped to hilts as the Skywatcher entered the hall. “They won’t need them in the next life,” he said, looking at the bodies dispassionately. “My thanks, god-marked, for your kindness toward my kin on the path here. I saw how you laid them out by their fires. I’ll tend to the rites in the morning.”

“How did you get through the undead?” Ciri asked.

Something gooey fell from the end of the Skywatcher’s maul and hit the flagstones with a wet plop. “Perhaps the gods favored my fight.”

“Well, that’s one problem solved,” Ciri said. “Will the death of the chief’s son be a problem?”

The Skywatcher shrugged. “He has better sons. But he’s proud. You’re not the one he’ll blame for the brat’s loss.”

“What will you do, then?”

“Travel to the Basin,” the Skywatcher told her. “I’m known in Stone-Bear Hold. Their Thane would welcome me. If you ever come that way, mention ‘Amund’ and they’ll know you as a friend.”

“Farewell, Amund,” Ciri said sincerely. “Safe travels.”

“And to you, god-marked.”

They left the keep behind, the soldiers bringing up the rear with the Avvar weapons and the chests from the guardhouse. Ciri was sore and bone-weary, ready to collapse in her bedroll back at camp. There had been altogether too much fighting today.

Solas placed a hand on the back of her neck, and she straightened as a gentle warmth suffused her, washing away the worst of her tiredness. “Better?”

“Much. Thank you.” She looked at him and added quietly, mindful of the larger party, “You were starting to suggest an alternative to Triss’ method.”

“Ah, yes.” He fell silent for a long moment, then, when Ciri feared he wasn’t going to speak at all, said slowly, “The anchor is very compatible with your own magic. It’s not out of the question that you might absorb the power and take it for your own.”

Ciri stared at him, and he continued calmly, “The power itself is not evil, regardless of what Corypheus intended to use it for. By taking it for yourself you deny it to him for good.”

“Solas,” she whispered, her mouth dry. She licked her lips and tried again. “Solas. Do you remember what too much power did to my perception of people? The anchor has even more power than what the mages channeled into me.”

“I believe in your strength of will,” Solas said, “and I am not certain your theory that too much magic warps perception is correct.”

She clenched her marked hand and looked away. He was wrong. And her strength of will had faltered before when power tempted her in the desert years ago. _It mustn’t this time_.

She’d use her mother’s method. She was powerful enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for your feedback. I like knowing I've entertained you with an update!


	32. Closeness and Closure

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ciri returns to Skyhold and mixes business and pleasure with Owain. She meets the new arcanist and closes the chapter on the events of Redcliffe Castle.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beta-read by brightspot149. Thank you!

Triss was waiting for them as they left the stables, weary and covered in a month’s worth of dust and grime. Her friend, by contrast, looked lively and well-rested, dressed in what appeared to be a new outfit. The rich blue of the high-necked linen shirt set off Triss’ eyes beautifully. She smiled and handed Ciri a thin stack of parchment, relieving her of her saddlebags in turn.

“The merchants started to arrive three weeks ago,” Triss said. “Josephine had new robes made for you, Olgierd, but she didn’t have anything to measure them against. She wants to know how you like them. They’re in your room on your bed.”

“She’s a woman of impeccable taste,” Olgierd said fondly. “I suspect they’ll suit just fine.”

Triss tucked her free arm into Ciri’s as they strolled back toward the main hall past the new vendor stalls and the busy workers. “Let’s see. Two of the Chargers and Sers Rona and Raúl came back yesterday evening. That irritating revered mother tried to claim the garden as part of the Inquisition’s chantry, but Cassandra ran her off in exchange for a room just off it. Josephine furnished the main hall and your room. Oh, and the other advisors would like to know when you’re dealing with Alexius.”

Ciri blinked at Triss. “The _other_ advisors?”

Triss gave her a smile replete with satisfaction. “Officially, I’m liaising between the mages and the Inquisition, bringing their needs and concerns to the advisors’ attention. Unofficially, however…. After our talk, they decided to invite me to the table.”

“All of them? Even Cullen?”

“It’s been an eventful month here,” Triss said. “We’re not friends, but he’s civil. My work with Evelyn and Clemence helps.”

“Liaison to the Inquisition, unofficial advisor, working on removing the anchor, and trying to discover the cause behind lyrium addiction and create a cure,” Ciri listed off. “You’ll be busy. Too busy to leave Skyhold with me.”

Triss let go of her arm to pinch her side lightly through her leather jerkin. “But not too busy to go to Geralt and Yenna with updates. Come to me later. I’ll want to see how your hand is doing.”

Ciri shot a look over her shoulder at their trailing companions and lowered her voice. “Did you go back while we were gone?”

“Once, just to tell them you’d been made Inquisitor, and to borrow Yenna’s microscope. I don't think the smith here can make one for me."

“Do you think you’ll be able to help them?”

Triss shrugged. “Sure, if Evelyn can talk Cullen around into giving me a sample of his blood. I keep thinking I see _something_ in Owain’s, but I can’t be certain without a more recent user’s sample to compare it to. Unfortunately for me, his mind jumps straight to blood magic.”

“I’ll talk with him,” Ciri assured her.

“Thanks.” She waved to the steps leading to the doors of the main hall with a smile. “Come on. I know for a fact there’s a hot bath waiting for you up in your room.”

“Just what I need, after two weeks in the saddle riding back from a bog,” Ciri sighed. “You read my mind.”

“When you’re done, send a runner for the rest of the advisors. Krem and the Templars have a report to make, and there are issues to take care of,” Triss said with a nod at the pages in Ciri’s hand.

“And where will you be?”

“In the library,” Triss said. “Liaising. Fiona has concerns about the lack of a dedicated space for the mages here in Skyhold. She and Letia also had a few ideas for what to do with Alexius.”

Olgierd caught up to them, his saddlebags slung over his arm. “When the merchants came –”

“Josephine bought you a shaving kit, too,” Triss interrupted, laughter in her eyes.

“She’s a gem.” He tipped them a nod and walked past, whistling under his breath.

Ciri looked behind her again. Sera and the Iron Bull were wandering off in the other direction, both of them making for the tavern. Solas maintained his distance, walking a few yards behind. She frowned reflexively. He'd been giving her space to think over his suggestion, but time had only cemented her decision.

“What’s with that face?” Triss asked as they climbed the stairs.

“It’s nothing,” Ciri muttered.

She pushed open the doors and paused at the entrance. _Well_. That was quite the improvement! The broken chandelier had been removed and replaced by three others, and light streamed in from the repaired windows at both ends of the hall, amply aided by sconces set along the walls. Massive wooden carvings of suns with somber faces hung above two of the doorways, and farther down, she spotted tall metal statues of some sort of bird – ravens, perhaps, or crows. Dark green drapes embroidered with stylized golden trees hung from the rafters. Tables and low benches flanked the walls, the seats taken here and there by idling nobles.

At the end of the hall, up on the low dais, she saw the same throne she’d so disliked earlier, free of cobwebs and ready for use.

“Josephine felt a mix of elven and Free Marcher style would be best, considering you said no to anything religious or ornate,” Triss told her. “It won’t endear you to the Orlesians, but so far nothing has.”

“I like it,” Ciri declared.

And she did. It had a rustic warmth to it, and the statues and carvings were unlike anything from back home. Josephine had done a marvelous job.

“I’m off to take that bath before the water cools,” she told Triss, taking back her saddlebags. “I’ll see you shortly.”

She made it past the nobles without hassle – due in no small part to the month of accumulated dirt and dust – and ducked behind her door before someone more alert could spot her.

Her breath caught in her throat at the top of the stairs, and she dropped her saddlebags at her feet in a daze.

If the main hall below had been warm and rustic, her chambers were the very definition of elegance. She hadn’t lived in such luxury since she’d been a child in Cintra. By the top of the stairs, a cream-colored loveseat waited to be used. In the far corner sat a sturdy, beautifully carved desk made of a rich, warm wood, and behind it, a heavy armchair and two bookcases filled to the brim with books. Against the wall, in pride of place, stood a massive four-poster bed, topped with a crimson and gold canopy and matching coverlet.

In the space between the balcony and the foot of the bed, a large copper and wood tub waited for her, curls of steam rising from the water. A folded towel and a small tray bearing a bar of soap and a stoppered glass bottle sat beside it.

She discarded the papers on the desk and stripped off her armor hastily, kicking her boots and trousers away and tugging her shirt over her head. She slipped into the tub with a deep, satisfied sigh. _Bliss_.

The soap smelled sweet and mildly spicy. She scrubbed herself all over thoroughly until the water was faintly gray and filmy with suds and her skin was pink as a ginatia flower. She poured a dollop from the glass bottle into her hand and massaged it into her hair, the spicy smell growing stronger.

One more dunk and she got out, dripping wet and immensely happy. She wrung her hair out over the tub and wrapped the towel around herself, padding on wet feet to her wardrobe.

She’d just pulled on fresh underclothes and a clean pair of trousers when she heard Owain’s voice calling from the stairwell.

“I’m up here!” she called back, tugging on a wine red linen shirt.

He stopped short at the top of the stairs, taking in the sight of the tub and her wet hair. “Am I interrupting?”

“Not at all,” she said, smiling at him. She crossed the room to stand on tiptoe, pressing a kiss to his shaved cheek. “I see you’ve acquired a razor as well.”

“The army’s unofficial beard-growing contest is at an end,” he joked, ducking his head to return her kiss. “Not that I would have won if we counted Blackwall and Olgierd among the contestants.”

“Triss told me some of what’s happened while we were away. Can you fill me in on the rest?”

“Tell me what she told you, and I’ll let you know what’s missing,” he said, sitting on the loveseat.

She gathered up the papers from the desk, saying, “Mother Kordula tried and failed to take over the garden, Triss is a liaison-slash-advisor now, Cullen won’t give his blood for her research, and Rona, Raúl, Krem and another Charger are back.”

Owain held out an arm, and she sat next to him, legs curled up beneath her as he dropped it over her shoulders. She leaned into his warm hold, resting her head on his shoulder as she flipped idly through the pages.

“Did she mention Alexius?” he asked

“...She did.”

“You’ll have to address that sooner or later.”

“I know.” She could feel his shoulder getting damp beneath her head from her wet hair, but he didn’t seem to mind. “Was there anything else?”

"The arcanist arrived," he said. He chuckled. "I think you'll like her. She's very enthusiastic, and eager to see your armor and silver sword.”

“I like her already,” Ciri said. “I’ll have them sent down ahead of me while we’re in the meeting.”

“She’ll love you for that.”

She held out the stack of papers, turning her head to look up at him. “Do you have any insight into these matters? The memorial at Haven seems straightforward, but this request from the Keeper of Clan Lavellan is troubling. And I’m not sure why Josephine even included this proposal from the merchant princes for me to look at.”

He gave the papers a look that told Ciri he’d seen them before, several times. “Triss and I suggested it would be better to brief you ahead of time, so you aren’t arriving unprepared. That’s everything that will come up in the next meeting. You’re right, Josephine’s proposal to treat with the merchant princes doesn’t really need your input, but you have the final say on if it goes forward. The rest is down to how we handle it.”

Ciri flipped through the papers again. “A...request from a Helisma Derrington for samples of flora and fauna?”

“A Tranquil mage who’s taken over Minaeve’s duties,” Owain said. “She’s looking into whether the rifts have affected the wildlife.”

“And this farmer, Sutherland?”

“I suggest arming him and sending him out to deal with the bandits he saw,” Owain said. “I’m with the Commander on this.”

“Mm-hmm. And this issue with Clan Lavellan being harassed by suspiciously well-armed bandits outside Wycome? I see the other advisors left notes – this Duke Antoine is an Inquisition ally?”

Owain held up his hand and teetered it back and forth in a “so-so” gesture. “He’s a snake. My family has never trusted him. He’s notorious in the Free Marches for undercutting and backstabbing his allies. If he says he’ll help protect the Dalish, I’d take it with a hefty grain of salt.”

“I’ll ask Leliana to deal with it, then,” she decided, and set the papers down beside her. “But how are you? I’ve missed you.”

“I missed you, too,” he said quietly, his voice warm. His smile was tinged with regret as he continued, “I’ve been better. Luckily Rylen’s had Evelyn to help him right from the start, but I wish more than anything my parents had helped Triss come up with a different story. We were friendly back in Starkhaven. There are no good choices when it comes to lyrium, but I helped force his hand through a lie, and I have to live with that.”

“What would have happened to him had he kept taking it?” she asked.

"Dementia, in another five to ten years," Owain said. "But withdrawal can be deadly. As I said, there are no good choices."

In that moment, he looked exhausted, resignation dulling the beautiful blue of his eyes. A pang of empathy struck her, just as it had when he’d first explained the horrors of lyrium.

Ciri put her hand on his cheek and tilted his face down to kiss him softly, pressing her lips to his. He kissed her back just as gently, his lips warm against hers and his broad hand cradling the back of her head. She pulled back after a few seconds and met his eyes.

“I still think you’re a good man.”

“I try,” he said again, smiling at her.

“Triss is a talented alchemist,” she added, resting her head back on his shoulder. “If anyone can help, it’s her, your sister, and Clemence.”

“I’m past the worst of it, but if things could improve for Rylen and the Commander, or for any other Templars looking to free themselves….” He trailed off. “It’s hard to have hope, but I’m willing to give anything a chance.”

“They’ll find a way,” she said firmly. She sighed and reluctantly started to get up. “We should meet with the other advisors. I need to hear what happened in Therinfal.”

“Your hair is still wet,” he said in amusement, tugging her back down. “Stay here. I’ll get the towel. Where’s your comb?”

“In my saddlebags, on the outside pocket. No, the right bag.”

Owain returned with the comb and towel, sitting behind her on the love seat. He gently squeezed out the rest of the water from her hair, then started to comb the strands carefully from the bottom. The last of the tension in Ciri’s shoulders melted at his touch, and her head began to loll.

“You’ve done this before,” she murmured.

“There was another Templar in Starkhaven when I was younger,” he told her, an echo of remembered fondness in his voice. “I thought I was head over heels in love with her.”

“What happened?”

“We weren’t that in love after all. The last I heard, she was serving in Ansburg with a husband outside the Order. That was before the rebellion.”

“Mm.”

A quiet minute passed, and then he said, “This suits you. This room, this elegance. You seem to fit here as well as you did the tents and campfires on the road to Haven.”

She forced herself to answer casually, her stomach flipping. “Maybe I’m secretly a princess,” she said lightly. “Or a bandit, and these are my spoils.”

Despite her efforts, her voice wavered. The slow, gentle movement of the comb stopped, and Owain’s arm slipped around her and drew her back to his chest.

“You’re a very talented bandit, then. Stealing hearts left and right.”

Laughter escaped her in a relieved burst. “You’re ridiculous.”

“I am,” he agreed, then added quietly, “are you really?”

He didn’t specify which.

“Not anymore, not either of those,” she admitted. “My grandparents are dead and their kingdom was conquered. And my friends were killed by a bounty hunter. I’m just a Witcher, that’s all.”

“Whoever you want to be, Ciri,” he said, still holding her close. “That’s good enough for me.”

“Thank you,” she whispered.

“And if you ever want to talk, I’m here.”

She felt a rush of affection and twisted in his arms, turning to meet his gaze. His dark blue eyes shone with sincerity. She leaned in to kiss him again, her heart over-full with emotion and her stomach full of butterflies.

“Not just yet,” she said as she drew back. “But I will.”

“In your own time.”

She sighed, settling back into his embrace. His broad chest made for a comfortable place to rest. “Perhaps I can stay until my hair is completely dry.”

He dropped a kiss on the crown of her head, laughing under his breath. “If it dries too fast, we can always dunk you again.”

* * *

“That should be the last of it,” Cullen said as Leliana placed one of her markers by Wycome. “Should we bring in Lieutenant Aclassi and Sers Rona and Raúl?”

“If there’s nothing else,” Ciri agreed.

Owain crossed to the door and opened it, speaking in a low voice to the three waiting outside. They gave polite nods to Ciri as they entered. She looked them over carefully. Raúl appeared tired, but he smiled slightly as he met her eyes. Rona seemed reluctant to be there. Krem was as professional as ever.

“Welcome, Lieutenant, Ser Raúl, Rona,” Josephine greeted them. “Ser Raúl, we look forward to having you with us in future meetings.”

He grimaced and shot Cullen an apologetic look. “Ah – yes. As do I, of course.”

“Tell us of what you found in Therinfal,” Ciri prompted them.

“We found two still alive in the dungeon,” Krem reported. “From the looks of it, there had been a dozen of them locked in there originally. We assume they’d been left to starve, or they’d been forgotten.”

“We tried to get them stabilized and back to Skyhold fast enough, but it was too late,” Rona said. “Before he died, Ser Barris said he and the others refused to switch to the red stuff, and got locked up until they ‘saw the light.’”

“Bastards,” Raúl muttered, then added, louder, “we also found a strange shrine to Celene, but...defaced. Whoever made it must have hated her. We didn’t know what that meant, but –”

“We have intelligence suggesting her life is in danger from Corypheus and his lackeys,” Leliana said. “This only strengthens our earlier report.”

Krem nodded. “The Knights-Vigilant were slain at least a month and a half ago. I’m sorry, Commander. We found their bodies.”

Cullen looked down at the map, his shoulders sagging. “At least they weren’t involved in this madness. Thank you, Lieutenant.”

“And the envy demon?” Ciri asked.

“Stuck its ugly head up as we were ferrying the Templars from the dungeon,” Raúl told her. He frowned. “It looked like Lord Seeker Lucius, of all people.”

“Maker!” Cassandra exclaimed. “That can’t be.”

“That’s what we saw,” Rona said shortly. “We would have chased it, but –”

“The surviving Templars had to take priority,” Krem said. “For all the good it did. Over half the Chargers are still in pursuit. They’ll catch it soon enough.”

“I’m sure they will,” Ciri said. She crossed her arms, feeling a prickle of guilt. “We failed them, didn’t we?”

Chancellor Roderick had suggested sending an emissary. If she hadn’t been so adamant about avoiding anything to do with Lord Seeker Lucius, she could have done something to help the Templars being corrupted under his watch, provided a way out for the ones who’d resisted.

“No. I failed them,” she corrected herself.

“Don’t do that to yourself,” Owain said immediately. “You saved hundreds of mages from slavery to Tevinter. Any true Templar would tell you that was the right choice.”

“And the Order’s a mess,” Rona added. “You wouldn’t have wanted them in the Inquisition’s ranks. It’s a fucking shame they died, but the ones we tried to save were the only ones worth the effort in that whole Maker-forsaken castle.”

Ciri eyed her with concern. Ever since Clemence had arrived in Haven, Rona’s dislike for the Order had only grown stronger. That she’d agreed to investigate Therinfal at all had come as a surprise. She’d have to have a quiet word with Cullen or Owain about alternate arrangements for what Rona might do, if working alongside Templars was such a problem for her.

Ciri nodded and turned to Krem. "Thank you, Lieutenant. I think that covers everything. Iron Bull went to the tavern if you wanted to see him."

“I should,” he said, smiling. “I’m sure the big guy’s been lost without me.”

“He pined,” Ciri said, straight-faced. “The entire way to the bog and back. Horribly. ‘Oh, if only Krem were here! Krem could kill a hundred undead with one hand tied behind his back! Where’s my faithful lieutenant?’”

Krem laughed. “I’ve heard worse impressions. Stop by the tavern some time, Inquisitor. I’ll buy a round.”

“I’m off as well,” Rona said. “I don’t like leaving Clemence alone too long. He gets absorbed in something and forgets to take a break to eat.”

“Then I’ll see you both later,” Ciri said. “Raúl?”

“I don’t have anything special planned,” he told her.

“I’m headed for the undercroft to meet the new arcanist. Walk with me?”

“But of course.”

She said her goodbyes to Owain, Triss, and the others, leaving with Krem, Rona, and Raúl. They parted ways in the main hall, Rona heading off to find her brother and Krem striding briskly out the main doors toward the tavern. As Ciri walked across the newly-decorated hall with Raúl, she caught sight of Maxwell disappearing through the doorway to the rotunda.

She looked up at the former Templar curiously. “Back in Haven, Owain mentioned something about you and Maxwell.”

“Nothing came of it,” Raúl said with a self-deprecating smile. “Despite my many truly excellent qualities, I’m still a motherless urchin from the streets of Rialto. I couldn’t even boast of being a Templar any longer when we met. I certainly wasn’t fit for the likes of a noble’s youngest son.”

“I’m sorry,” she said sympathetically.

He winked. “My heart doesn’t break that easily, _bellissima._ And I had fun making him stammer until he got over me.”

He left her at the entrance of the undercroft with a shallow bow, and Ciri ventured in for the first time since their arrival at Skyhold.

A dull roar hit her ears as she entered, and she looked out in surprise at the waterfall pounding down just beyond the open space at the far end of the forge. The sound was a low counterpoint to the clanging of metal as Harritt’s hammer beat a glowing red sword into shape on the anvil. Along the wall she spied odd metal contraptions, some tall and thin, others squat and bristling with spiky protrusions. She couldn’t even begin to guess their purpose. And bent over a bench near the center of the room, a small pair of pliers and a magnifying glass in her hands, a redheaded dwarven woman peered at Ciri’s armor intently.

“Hello?” Ciri called out.

The dwarven woman whirled around. She was adorable, young and pink-cheeked, with big blue eyes that gleamed with intelligence.

“Oh! You must be the Inquisitor!” She set down her tools and rushed over, beaming. “I’m Dagna – _Arcanist_ Dagna. Where did you get your sword and armor? They’re amazing!”

“They were gifts from my father and uncles,” she said. “You should have seen my steel sword.”

“I’m sorry I missed it,” Dagna said. She seemed to mean it. “So that’s what we’re doing, right? Making you a new sword? I can’t imagine a silver sword would be very useful in a fight – way too fragile. And I don't think I can improve on your armor unless you want a rune or two applied."

“Maybe later,” Ciri told her. “Did you have some ideas?”

“Tons!” Dagna said eagerly. “But it’s your sword, of course. So I figured I’d run it all by you.”

She beckoned Ciri to follow her deeper into the forge and led her to a table where a half-dozen ingots lay. “I’ve been experimenting with alloys,” she said, “but you might want something less novel. These are the best for sword blades. Tell me what catches your eye, and we’ll go from there.”

Ciri had to admit that the metals of Thedas were very different from the Continent, and much more beautiful. Her hand hovered over a silvery ingot with a golden sheen, skipping past the soft golden-pink and the dramatic silvery green.

“That’s eighty-eight point four percent silverite with eleven point six percent volcanic aurum,” Dagna told her.

“It’s pretty.”

She moved on, finally dropping her hand on a pale, silver-white ingot that seemed to shimmer almost deep blue in the shadows. It looked like a glacier, or like the frozen shoreline in a Skelligan winter.

“Eighty-three point eight percent white steel with ten point six percent nevarrite and five point six percent lazurite,” Dagna said. She grinned. “That’s one of my favorites. Well, they’re all my favorite.”

“How is it as a blade?”

Dagna took the ingot from her and tucked it in her apron pocket. “Strong, sharp, and just flexible enough. I made test swords out of all of them and beat the stuffing out of a few dummies. Now, blade style –”

“Like my silver sword, please,” Ciri interrupted.

Dagna nodded. “Not much room for creativity there, but I’ve never made a sword in that style, so that could be interesting. And runes? Anything you’re looking for?”

“Do you have any way of adding runes that have a chance of stunning with each strike?” she asked. “Or something to freeze the enemy?”

“No to the first, yes to the second, but if you give me a little time I can probably do both!” Dagna said cheerfully. “Come back in a week, and we’ll have it ready for you. I’ll have your armor and sword delivered back to your room when I’m done gawking.”

“I look forward to it,” Ciri told her.

“And you can show me your hand-anchor-mark, too!” Dagna added. “It sounds neat!”

Ciri smiled. Owain was right; she did like Dagna. "I’ll show it to you later, and you can compare notes with Triss and Solas. They're studying ways to get it off me. Another perspective might be useful."

“Really? I’d love to!” Dagna waved her off, wandering over to her esoteric equipment. “Bye, Inquisitor. It was nice meeting your armor – _you_.”

Ciri shook her head, laughing, and left the undercroft and the enthusiastic little arcanist behind. She beckoned a loitering scout as she closed the door behind her, her smile slowly fading.

“Inquisitor?”

“Send word to the advisors that it’s time to deal with Alexius,” she said quietly.

The scout saluted and slipped away, and her eyes went to the throne at the end of the hall.

 _No more delays. No more prevarication_. _I must do my duty_.

* * *

Her first thought upon sitting was that the throne was uncomfortable. The padding on the seat was scant, the back hard and the armrests set at a strange, wide angle – meant more for a larger man than a woman. _Good_ , she thought. One should never get too comfortable on a throne.

All her companions and advisors stood near the dais, with a few dozen onlookers behind them. Mostly mages and a few soldiers, to Ciri’s eye. The seamstresses and tailors had clearly been busy while she was away, as everyone seemed to have a new outfit.

She had to agree with Olgierd, she thought as she looked him over. Josephine did have impeccable taste. He’d bathed as well, and put on one of his new robes, a dark walnut brown silk covered in dove gray embroidery with a broad charcoal gray sash. His beard and mustache were back to their normal well-groomed shape, though to her surprise he hadn’t shaved the sides of his head again, merely trimmed it back down to long stubble, and he still wore the short tail tied in the back. She wouldn’t recognize him as a Redanian noble so easily these days without the distinctive half-shaven haircut. But perhaps that was the point.

Fiona caught her eye from her place by the wall, and the Grand Enchanter nodded to her gravely. Just beyond her, Dorian gave her a tense look and dropped his gaze to the floor. Ciri swallowed hard, nodded back to Fiona, and turned her attention to Cullen.

“Have him brought in, please,” she said quietly.

Cullen made a gesture to the guards at the end of the hall, and the doors slammed open. With a clanking of chains, two soldiers marched a slumped, shuffling Alexius forward, his head bowed and his hands limp in their manacles.

“The court presents Gereon Alexius of Tevinter,” Josephine announced. “Former magister, former professor of thaumaturgy at the Minrathous Circle of Magi, and former member of the Venatori.”

“Are we certain Gereon Alexius’ allegiances to the Venatori are no longer current?” Ciri asked.

Alexius shook his head slowly. “The Elder One doesn’t tolerate failure. My life was forfeit when I surrendered.”

“And what are the charges being brought against him?” she asked for the benefit of the audience.

“Usurpation of a Ferelden noble’s seat, attempted enslavement, and attempted assassination of a diplomat,” Josephine read out.

“Serious charges, Alexius,” Ciri commented. “As I understand it, Fereldens take a particularly dim view of slavery. And Arl Teagan is very well-liked by his people.”

Alexius finally looked up, glaring at her. “Do you think my fate matters to me? The Elder One promised me a cure for my son, and I failed him – I failed them both! Do your worst, Inquisitor. I hardly care.”

“Oh, how I wish I could do my worst,” Ciri said. She leaned back in the hard-backed throne and drummed her fingers on the armrest. “Were I still angry, I would. But as you said, you failed. Everyone lived. Arl Teagan is back in Redcliffe. The mages have their freedom. What you attempted to orchestrate never came to pass.”

Alexius just glowered. Ciri didn’t know if he was aware his spell had worked, but either way, she wouldn’t bring up time travel in front of such a large crowd. And what she’d seen and suffered had no bearing on the charges at hand.

“You swore to the mages you’d help them. I’ll give you the opportunity to stand by that promise. Gereon Alexius, you will serve the mages you tried to enslave to the best of your ability, working under Grand Enchanter Fiona directly,” Ciri decreed. “Any research you do will be to aid them and their cause. Your wealth will be confiscated to help provide for their future. We’ll revisit this arrangement after Corypheus is defeated, assuming you’ve lived up to your end.”

“A headsman would have been kinder,” Alexius spat.

“Unshackle him,” Ciri ordered the guards. “He’s the grand enchanter’s problem now.”

“Don’t worry, Alexius,” Fiona said, a small smirk playing around the corners of her mouth as she approached the dais. “If the Inquisitor did not trust me, she would not have placed your life in my hands.”

Ciri couldn't tell whose hastily smothered laugh rang out in the hall. "Dismissed, everyone," she called out and stood from the throne. She left Alexius standing with Fiona, massaging his wrists and doing his best to glare a hole into the stone floor.

She caught Dorian as he attempted to slip away. “Your thoughts?”

Dorian froze and turned back. He gave her a weak smile. “He got off lightly. It’s better than he deserved, but still – thank you.”

“You’ll have time to talk to him now,” she said. “Once you’re done being furious with him.”

Dorian’s gaze moved past her shoulder to where Alexius stood with Fiona. “That may take a while. In the meantime, I intend to go lose myself in a bottle of something strong. We’ll speak later?”

“Of course.”

She let him escape up the stairs to the library and wandered back toward the dais. Josephine, standing close to Olgierd, beckoned her over with a friendly smile.

“That was well done,” she said kindly. “I could hardly tell you were uncomfortable. And your judgment should satisfy all but the most harshly-inclined. That Alexius was displeased speaks well to the nature of the sentence.”

“I don’t expect to please everyone,” Ciri said. She’d felt a bit like she was playing dress-up in her grandmother’s clothes. She hoped the feeling wore off by the next time she had to sit in judgment over someone’s fate.

“I don’t envy you the burden,” Olgierd told her. “But perhaps he’ll learn from this. Dorian spoke of him as a good man. He may take the opportunity to become one again if he doesn't resent you for it."

“What would you have done?” Ciri asked.

“A stump and a sword, once,” he said with a shake of his head. “Now? I haven’t a clue where I’d start with a man such as him, though I pity him in truth. I see too much of myself in him to want him to suffer.”

“I’ll just have to hope Dorian can reach him, somehow,” Ciri said.

“Join us for supper,” Josephine invited her. “Olgierd said you were saving a special bottle of wine for when the traders brought fresh food to Skyhold?”

Ciri nodded. “From my father’s vineyard. I’d planned on sharing it with Triss and Solas, too – are they welcome?”

“Of course!” Josephine laid her hand on Olgierd’s forearm and smiled warmly at Ciri. “And do invite Ser Owain as well. We’ll meet you on the upper floor of the tavern. I believe the cooks prepared pheasant for your return.”

Ciri watched them walk off, Olgierd’s head tilted down to listen attentively to Josephine as she spoke, both of them absorbed in their own little world. She smiled to herself and turned away, leaving to find Solas.

She found him in the rotunda, a bucket of thick white plaster at his feet and flecks of it dotting his face and tunic, spreading it over the walls carefully with a trowel. “Solas?”

“ _Lethallin_ ,” he greeted her. “I’m busy at the moment, but I’ll have time in a few hours. What did you need?”

“I came to invite you to supper. You said you’d eat with us when we opened the wine.”

“Then I picked a poor time to start my project,” he said. “I apologize. Perhaps another evening?”

“I’ll hold you to that,” she told him. She drew closer, curious. “What are you doing?”

“This is the first layer for a fresco,” he told her. “The technique is Elvhen, all but lost to the ages. I intend to commemorate your journey as Inquisitor on these walls.”

"That's a generous gift." She remembered watching him sketch back in the cultists' fort. She'd been right to assume he was an artist.

“It’s a small thing,” he dismissed, his strokes with the trowel not faltering. “Have you given any more thought to my suggestion?”

“I have. I don’t think it’s wise. The way people looked at the Breach, Solas! I can’t do that to myself again. I just can’t.” To see Templars as human golems again, to see almost everyone as shadows…. She shuddered, repulsed by the memory.

“It was likely just the shock of taking in so much magic at once,” he told her. “Absorbing it slowly should cause you no such problems.”

“No,” she said firmly. “I’m sorry.” She shook her head and changed the subject. “It’s too bad you won’t be joining us. I know you get on well with Olgierd and Triss, and I’d hoped to introduce you to Owain.”

An odd look flickered across his face.

“What?” she asked.

"A Templar is an odd choice of partner for someone with your power and talent," he said. "He cannot begin to understand your magic or your ancestry. And humans are a brutal, impetuous people."

She pursed her lips, suddenly more annoyed with him than she’d been in months. “You know that I respect you, Solas. That I like you. But sometimes you can be a bit of an ass.”

And willfully blind. She was almost as human as the people he insulted.

“You’re not the first to tell me so,” he said with a faint smile. “Enjoy your supper, _lethallin_. And think on what I said.”

She left the rotunda, shaking off her annoyance. Sometimes he seemed more like one of the Aen Elle than a Thedosian elf. But her complicated, irritating tutor was a problem for another day. Tonight was for friends and loved ones, no matter what a certain elf’s opinion might be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for your feedback! I like knowing I've entertained you with an update.


	33. Spirits and Swords

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ciri learns a little more about the mysterious being with Avallac'h's face. Olgierd has a conversation with Cole. Dagna presents Ciri with a sword.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beta-read by brightspot149 -- thank you very much!
> 
> Contains very minor Cullen/Evelyn, when Ciri is in the Skyhold garden.

Ciri dreamed of the river that ran along the outskirts of Tir ná Lia. She stood by the bank, buttercups and lupins brushing her calves, and watched the elegant boats drift by, ferrying tall, long-haired elves in soft silks and dramatic makeup.

A swan hissed and beat its wings, and she sympathized. She, too, wished to rage against this place of otherworldly beauty.

One of the boats drifted ashore, and Avallac’h stepped off, joining her on the bank.

“ _Zireael_ ,” he greeted her.

“A _tether_?” Ciri spat at Avallac’h. “Answer me plainly, you evasive bastard! Did you know?”

The spirit was unperturbed. “The magic that marks your hand is as clear as the scar upon your face. The Fade has laid claim to you. Its removal will not be easy.”

“Watch me,” she shot back. “And you didn’t answer. Could you have prevented this? Told me before Corypheus made it worse?”

“And what reason would I have for doing that?” he asked. “You are needed, _Zireael_. The _harellan_ will doom both the Fade and the physical world in his quest for atonement.”

Ciri took a step back. “I’ve already committed to fighting Corypheus,” she said. “There was no need to manipulate me into it. I know how dangerous he is.”

“Still you misunderstand.”

“So enlighten me,” she said, turning her gaze back to the river.

The swan chased a slow boat, hissing loudly, its eyes fixed on an elf’s hand trailing languidly through the water. She pressed her lips together to hide a smile at the high shriek and victorious honk that followed.

“Corypheus believes he has betrayed no one. He feels he has nothing to atone for. Your eyes are on the horizon when you should be looking beside you.”

“And still you play games,” Ciri said, giving him her best unimpressed look.

Avallac’h cast a glance at the passing boats. “Some things must not be spoken of plainly. Names attract attention in the Fade.”

“Are you hiding from someone?”

Ciri looked down at his ankle through the tall flowers. She couldn’t see the ghostly shackle, but he twitched his robes anyway.

“In a manner of speaking,” he said. “Consider me...a political prisoner. One meant to be forgotten.”

He gave the words a wry twist as if there was a hidden joke in there that Ciri wasn't privy to.

“Are you even a spirit?” She took another step back.

He gave her another infuriating, condescending smile. “What else could I be?”

Realization struck her. “You don’t want me to wake up and ask someone about you. That’s why you keep making me forget.”

“Very good, _Zireael_ ,” Avallac’h began.

Ciri laughed. “And there’s only one Dreamer among my companions. I’ll call his name – right now! – if you don’t let me start remembering.”

“That would be a poor choice,” Avallac’h told her. “Do you wish him to see Tir ná Lia? Learn of your well-meaning deception?”

“I’ll risk it,” she challenged him. “Will you?”

“Can you call him faster than I can wake you?”

“We’ll find out, won’t we?”

He eyed her for a long moment, then his lips twitched. “You’re bold. Very well, little swallow. You may remember the things we’ve spoken of. After all, it will be difficult for you to take action if you keep forgetting.”

“Finally,” Ciri muttered.

“And of all these things, remember this foremost: the Veil must remain.”

“The Veil must remain,” Ciri repeated. She looked up at him. “And you?”

“There’s a useful saying, ‘out of sight, out of mind,’” he said. “Let’s not give you any reason to seek out the Dreamer and ask after me.”

He flicked a dismissive hand at her, and she awoke in her bed confused and frustrated.

_How am I to stop the Veil from coming down? And who besides Corypheus could intend to remove it?_

* * *

Olgierd ventured into the tavern just after breakfast, still smiling to himself as he closed the door behind him. Varric and Hawke were lively company so early in the morning, and they had kept the conversation rolling easily along. Their fast, playful banter never stumbled, never missed a beat. And the food was delicious now that the traders had found their way to Skyhold.

He’d have to make his way down to the kitchens again. He had ideas for something sweet that shouldn’t be beyond the cooks’ abilities.

The Iron Bull hailed him from the corner of the tavern, sprawled out in a wooden chair that looked comically undersized beneath him. Olgierd made his way over, nodding to the big Qunari’s lieutenant as he passed.

“So,” the Iron Bull said. “This is new. Haven’t seen you in here before.”

“Someone told me I could find Cole here,” Olgierd said. “I’ve a question or two for him.”

“Uh-huh.” The Iron Bull studied him in silence for several seconds. “Mind if I throw a question or two of my own your way first? Just looking to satisfy my curiosity here.”

It struck Olgierd that his casual slouch was very deliberate, lending him an air of openness and familiarity. Countless people must have been set at ease by the act, spilling secrets and taking him into their confidence.

“Was your curiosity not satisfied by whatever digging you did?” he asked.

The Iron Bull shrugged his massive shoulders. “Can’t a guy get to know a teammate? You handled yourself well out in the Fallow Mire. I wasn’t looking to pry into your darkest secrets or anything.” He paused and added offhandedly, “Not that I’m assuming you have any dark secrets.”

“Of course not.” Olgierd leaned against a rough-hewn wooden column and crossed his arms. “Two questions. And I don’t guarantee you any answers.”

“That’s fair.” The Iron Bull scratched his chin with a long, thick finger, then pointed it at Olgierd. “Your family – did they have any connections to Tevinter? Your saber isn’t the sort of blade you generally see in the South.”

“Not that I’m aware of,” Olgierd said honestly. “I prefer the style over a straight blade. It’s better for fighting on horseback.”

The Iron Bull nodded. “Right. And I was wondering about your scars. I pried a little –”

“Of course.”

“You’re more scarred up than me,” the Iron Bull said, pointing at Olgierd. “Thing is, I can’t figure out how you could have picked up so many. No merc band’s ever heard of you, and from what I gathered, it’s your brother that fought the Blight, not you.”

“Is there a question in there somewhere?” Olgierd asked.

“Yeah,” the Iron Bull said. “How’d you get them?”

“In the usual manner,” Olgierd said. He smirked faintly at the Iron Bull’s disgruntled scoff. “I fought, I bled, I survived.”

“In other words, don’t ask.”

“Perceptive of you,” Olgierd said. He pushed off the wooden column, standing straight. “That’s two questions. Satisfied?”

“Hardly ever,” the Iron Bull said, “but it’ll do for now. The kid’s on the top floor. See you around.”

Olgierd climbed the stairs as the tavern slowly began to fill, ascending past the second floor to the darker, dusty space above. He glanced about and saw no one.

“Cole?”

“Oh brother, brother,  
My dear brother,  
Feed my little brown steed.”

He looked again, startled by the familiar tune. Tucked away in the shadows, hat drawn over his eyes, Cole sang softly.

“And after you have fed  
Your little brown steed,  
Put on the red-leathern saddle.”

Olgierd walked over. “Cole,” he said again. “I don’t know that we’ve met, but I had some questions for you. My name is Olgierd.”

Cole stopped singing and pushed the brim of his hat back to stare up at him with pale eyes. “We met in the mountains. You wouldn’t remember. Your thoughts were tangled, twisted, tormented. I helped you let go, find a way forward.”

“I don’t –” But he did. That moment of peace, staring out over the remains of Haven, bidding Iris’ memory farewell. His resolve to move forward with Josephine. He cleared his throat. “Thank you.”

Cole’s smile seemed both childlike and wise. “I like to help.” He cocked his head at Olgierd. “‘And after you put on the red-leathern saddle, attach the golden stirrups.’ So many songs…. How do they not spill out? Don’t they want to be heard?”

Olgierd held up his empty hands. “My lute lies beneath a hundred tons of snow, I fear. Though I do hum a bit when the feeling grabs me.”

Cole hummed in response. “I like your songs. They’re different. They _feel_ different.”

“Thank you.” He listened to Cole hum to himself for a few seconds, then interrupted gently. “I did have a question for you.”

“Yes.” Cole blinked at him.

 _Yes?_ Olgierd gave him a curious look, but Cole said nothing further. “You’re a spirit,” he said, “yet you appear as a human. Did you take on the form of another? Model yourself after someone?”

Cole fidgeted, twisting his hands together in an anxious gesture. “I don’t like thinking about it. There was a boy in the dark. He called out for help. No one came but me, but I – I couldn’t help. He died, so I became him.”

The spirit boy's knuckles were white and bloodless.

“My apologies,” Olgierd said quietly.

“Yes,” Cole said again. “Adventure remembers Vlodimir like a portrait you painted, kinder, cleverer, braver. You want to remember him that way, without the cruelty or the callousness.”

A protest rose on Olgierd’s lips, and he bit it back with a sigh. “Whatever his faults, mine were just as worthy of condemnation. My brother deserved a kinder end than he received. If I burnish his memory some, it harms no one.”

“Adventure likes being your brother,” Cole told him earnestly. “Wind in his face, riding the fields beside you. Underfoot in the kitchens, Cook chasing him out with a spoon. Playing the tabor in the parlor while his brother strums his lute. Wenching...oh. What’s wenching?”

“Something you’re too young to know about, and a pastime he was fond of,” Olgierd said in amusement. “How do you know these things?”

“His thoughts touch yours.”

“It is good to have him back, even in so strange a fashion,” Olgierd admitted. “But he can’t do what he did again. It’s dangerous for him to venture so close to the rifts.”

“Bigger, but not faster,” Cole said. “Stronger, but not smarter. ‘My brother’s right arm. He fights, and I follow.’”

“And if he follows to his death?”

“You fight on,” Cole said. “No tables in the rifts. It will be a better death. Why tables?”

Olgierd let out a short, unhappy laugh. “Never you mind that. Fine. He always was a stubborn lout.”

“I said the wrong thing,” Cole said, looking distressed. “Wait, I can try again.”

“Nay, it’s fine.” Olgierd shook his head. “I’ve never in my life been able to keep Vlod out of a fight. He’d best be careful, though.”

“He’s Adventure,” Cole said, as if that explained everything.

And it did.

“He is,” Olgierd agreed. “Thank you, Cole. It was good to speak with you.”

"Bring your songs back some time," Cole replied and began singing to himself again.

Olgierd left the tavern restless and unsettled, his thoughts buzzing through his mind. He heard the faint sound of steel clashing on steel in the distance and struck out for the sparring ring. Surely someone would have the decency to let him work off his mood with a bout or five.

 _I must tell Ciri about Vlod_. But not yet. He needed to beat a stand-in for his reckless, headstrong brother into the dust first.

* * *

Ciri ventured into the herb garden, turning her face up to the gentle sunlight filtering through the trees. It was still unseasonably warm in Skyhold; the temperature remained pleasant and the skies clear right around the fortress no matter the weather just beyond. The garden, now that it had felt the touch of a gardener’s hand, looked welcoming, peaceful even. Gray stone benches and a wooden gazebo provided places to rest. Trees granted generous shade. Young seedlings poked up eagerly in a dozen clay pots along the perimeter.

She looked toward the gazebo and smiled at the sight of Cullen and Evelyn, both absorbed in some sort of board game. Evelyn said something with a playful smile and Cullen blushed, rubbing the back of his neck awkwardly.

That looked too important to interrupt. She turned to get a closer look at the seedlings, ducking her head before they could see her.

“Inquisitor!” someone called out in a heavy Nevarran accent.

Ciri sighed and plastered a neutral expression on her face before turning. “Revered Mother Kordula. What an unexpected pleasure.”

Mother Kordula snorted. “Don’t blow smoke up my habit, Inquisitor. We both know I’m here on sufferance. You have been avoiding me. Understandable, I suppose, if not a bit childish.”

“I’ve done as you’ve asked,” Ciri said, lowering her voice. “I’ve stopped telling people I’m not chosen, or holy, or blessed.”

“Yes, and the peasants and dog-lords flock to your banner,” Mother Kordula said with exquisitely sharp scorn. “How fares your efforts with Orlais’ nobles? Less well, I understand.”

Ciri glared and glanced around the garden for eavesdroppers. “What do you know of that?”

“Follow me,” Mother Kordula instructed her, turning on her heel.

She led Ciri to a door along the shaded walkway running along the side of the garden and opened it for her with a shallow bow. Ciri entered to find a small chapel, candles dotting the floor, and a half-dozen empty pews set before a tall stone statue of a woman with outstretched hands, her head crowned and veiled. Chancellor Roderick knelt before her, reciting prayers quietly.

He got to his feet stiffly, placing a hand to his lower back as he rose. “Inquisitor,” he greeted Ciri. “Forgive me for my absence at the meetings. Chantry matters have kept me occupied.”

A convenient fiction, and one the revered mother apparently believed, given her lack of reaction to his words. “I need to have a word with the Inquisitor, Roderick,” Mother Kordula said. “If you’d give us the space?”

“Chancellor Roderick can stay,” Ciri contradicted. “I’m sure he has insight to offer.”

“I’m always happy to serve the Inquisition,” Chancellor Roderick said, sinking into the front pew. “What’s this about, Kordula?”

Mother Kordula stood beneath the statue facing Ciri and Chancellor Roderick. She waited while Ciri sat beside the chancellor, her keen eyes glittering in the candlelight. “I fear the Inquisitor underestimates the problems that come with a lack of support from Orlais, and the troubles our divided Chantry faces.”

“Lady Ciri has done an admirable job drawing support,” Chancellor Roderick said. “Nobles across the Free Marches have joined the Inquisition’s cause thanks to her connection to the Trevelyan family. King Alistair’s statement of support brought in Ferelden nobles. And Lady Montilyet’s efforts have netted noble patrons in Antiva and Nevarra.”

“But the response from Orlais is tepid at best, even with King Fulgeno’s former court ambassador at the helm,” Mother Kordula countered. “Have you wondered why that is, Inquisitor?”

“When I arrived in Val Royeaux, I was called a half-breed, a mongrel,” Ciri said. “A nobleman insinuated I was out to steal the throne thanks to that rumor I’m a Valmont bastard. And there were two attempts on my life, one an assassin, the other a noble mage manipulated into it by a bard called Papillon.”

“I heard of the noble who stirred the crowd against you,” Mother Kordula said. “Agnesot’s work, though she didn’t have to try very hard. Anti-elven sentiment runs deep in Orlais, since the time of the Second Blight. Where other nations hear of your ancestry and marvel, many Orlesians assume a heathen has come to undermine the foundations of their religion.”

“It’s angered some elves, too,” Ciri said. “One of the Inquisition scouts, Mahanon Lavellan, sees me as stealing the Dalish’s legacy.”

She didn’t disagree with him, but there was little she could do to make things right.

“The concerns of one Dalish scout are of little consequence,” Mother Kordula said with a dismissive wave. “It’s the nobility you should be concerned with.”

“So they think me a heathen mongrel,” Ciri said. “One out to steal Celene’s throne – or Gaspard’s throne, depending on which royal they favor. You can’t have brought it up just to rub the problem in my face.”

“No. Normally a rumor has a life cycle,” Mother Kordula said. “That these refuse to fade tells us that the flames are being fanned unnaturally. I asked my fellow clerics in Orlais to look into it, and they had some helpful information for us.”

“Us?”

Mother Kordula gave her an unimpressed look. “The Chantry wishes only for the Inquisition to succeed, Lady Hand. Try to rein in your skepticism.”

“Why isn’t Leliana bringing this to my attention?” Ciri asked. “Or Josephine?”

“I suspect Sister Leliana is working diligently at the problem in order to present a solution to you _fait accompli_ ,” Chancellor Roderick told her. “It’s a habit of hers to keep her own counsel. One that’s hard to break, I imagine. And Lady Montilyet’s contacts travel in different circles than Chantry clerics.”

Ciri gave him a slow nod. That did make sense. “Your information, then. What have you learned?”

“Agnesot and her followers preach against you at every service,” Mother Kordula said. “Dozens of chantries and cathedrals, thousands of worshipers, all hearing the same message. An apostate, a heathen, a blasphemous elf-blooded liar, a grasping bastard out to steal the throne. The drip of poison is unabated.”

“What do you expect me to do about it?”

“Grand Cleric Oudine has taken a neutral stance with Agnesot’s faction in the hopes that some of them will come to their senses and return to the Chantry’s embrace.” Mother Kordula snorted softly. “For someone so pragmatic, she can be terribly softhearted at times. If the Inquisition were to make its position on Agnesot and her rebels clear, a line could be drawn. The Grand Clerics would support it, and we could excommunicate them. That would give their congregations pause.”

Ciri looked to Chancellor Roderick. He shook his head gravely, looking troubled.

“You disagree, Chancellor?”

“I don’t, more’s the pity,” he sighed. “Something must be done, and Agnesot has been allowed to run unchecked for too long. But this would make the schism official. There’s no coming back from such a step.”

“Gird your loins, Roderick, our battles have only just begun,” Mother Kordula said sharply.

“I’ll mention it to the advisors,” Ciri said. “Was there anything else?”

Mother Kordula nodded. “You’d do well to familiarize yourself with the Chant of Light. It’s not hard to tell your parents were remiss in your religious education. Your opponents will wield verses at you like weapons. The best counter is another verse. Know the terrain you fight in – it’s not one of swords and magic, but belief and doubt. You win hearts by showing that the ‘heathen, half-breed heretic’ is a woman of faith.”

“I’ve already agreed to stop denying that I’m holy,” Ciri said in annoyance. “Now you wish me to feign piety?”

In response, Chancellor Roderick held out a small, leather-bound book, its spine creased and the edges of the pages glinting with gold. “She’s right, you know. They’ll always have an advantage over you so long as you remain ignorant of the Chant. Take mine, Inquisitor. Consider the words within yet another weapon at your disposal, if you must, but I hope you come to appreciate the beauty of the songs and the strength Andraste showed in the face of her trials.”

Ciri accepted the well-loved book carefully. "Thank you, Chancellor. I’ll take good care of it.”

She supposed she had no choice but to read it now. She hoped it was lighter fare than Roderick de Novembre or John of Brugge. Reading those for Lady Yennefer and Vesemir when she was younger had been a terrible slog.

“I’m surprised Mother Giselle isn’t here as well,” she commented, tucking the book away in her belt pouch.

“She’s ministering to the soldiers in the valley below the keep,” Mother Kordula said. “Their spiritual needs are just as important as their strength of arms.”

“Of course,” Ciri agreed, fighting the urge to roll her eyes. “If that’s all?”

“You should seek out Sister Leliana or Enchanter Vivienne,” Mother Kordula said. “Someone needs to teach you how to play the Grand Game. And I have no insight into this ‘Papillon’ who wants you dead so badly. They’ve both spent time in the Imperial court. Lady Montilyet as well, perhaps. Their contacts may turn up answers.”

“Thank you, Mother Kordula, Chancellor Roderick,” Ciri said, getting to her feet. “This was surprisingly helpful.”

“We servants of the faith aim to ease your burdens, not add to them,” Mother Kordula said. “Regardless of how you may see us.”

Ciri didn’t bother addressing the hypocrisy inherent in her words. If the revered mother wished to ease her burden, she wouldn’t demand Ciri stop denying her alleged holiness just to prop up the Chantry.

“So you tell me,” Ciri said. “I’m sure we’ll speak again soon. Chancellor, you should return to the meetings. This move will undoubtedly stir up trouble, and I’d like your expertise on the matter.”

“As you wish, Inquisitor,” he said with a shallow bow.

She left the candlelit chapel and its faithful occupants behind. The dappled sunlight struck her as she entered the garden again, and she looked around to see that Evelyn and Cullen had finished their game and left. With no one left to speak to, she ventured back into the main hall, making her way to the rookery.

Unpleasant or not, Mother Kordula was right. She needed to have a word with Leliana.

She found her at her desk, issuing orders to a pair of scouts.

“Go through Lady Beatrice’s room while she’s at supper,” she told them. “She’s been evasive ever since arriving, and I want to know why. Look for correspondence. And tell the Iron Bull I approved most of his packet to his superiors but removed three pages. He'll see for himself."

The scouts saluted and left, and Leliana leaned back in her chair and gave Ciri a polite nod. “Inquisitor. What brings you to my office?”

“What progress have you made on the assassin in Val Royeaux? And on Papillon?”

Leliana frowned. “Very little, I’m afraid. The assassin’s mask appears to be a dead end. And Papillon is frustratingly elusive and plays the Game well. Josephine's efforts to create stronger ties to the nobility of Orlais have been undercut at almost every turn, and my agents have turned up a familiar hand behind it in almost every case."

“Papillon?”

“Exactly. He – or she – bribes, blackmails, and manipulates our potential allies away from us, leaving us with only a handful to count as friends.”

Ciri dropped into the chair across from Leliana’s desk, frustration rising in her. “ _How?_ No one spy should be so influential.”

“They must have a very well-placed patron,” Leliana said. “A duke or a duchess, perhaps. Possibly even Celene herself, though I doubt it.”

“What does this mean for us?” Ciri asked. “And what can we do about it?”

“It will make our work in Orlais that much harder, for a start,” Leliana said. “Getting close to Celene will be difficult so long as you’re viewed with such disfavor. Josephine and I have taken steps, though. We have a few friendly nobles in Orlais spreading the fact that you yourself have denied the rumor of Valmont blood. Enchanter Vivienne held a small salon while you were in the Fallow Mire where she made sure to speak well of you to the attendees. And there is a professor of old elven studies at the University of Orlais, a Bram Kenric, who’s taken it upon himself to write a monograph on the ancient Elvhen to hopefully clear up some of the confusion the Orlesians have about your heritage.”

“My _false_ heritage,” Ciri said quietly. “And what good will that do? It will only make them assume their racism towards modern elves is acceptable.”

Leliana sighed. “I don’t disagree with you. The state of affairs in Orlais, across all Thedas, breaks my heart. I believe we are all equal beneath the Maker’s sight. Though you’d be hard-pressed to find a grand cleric who agrees with me.”

“If you believe that, then fight for it,” Ciri urged her. “We founded the Inquisition for justice. Surely you’re not the only one in the Chantry who feels the same way.”

“One war at a time,” Leliana said. Still, a spark lit her eyes. “But you’re right. We cannot let injustice stand.”

“Are there any in Orlais we can reach out to?” Ciri asked.

“I would suggest Briala, Celene’s former spymaster, if I didn’t think it would completely destroy our chances of getting the support of the nobles,” Leliana said. “Vicomtesse Elodie de Morreau is a useful resource, and well-connected in Lake Celestine. And we mustn’t discount Enchanter Vivienne’s connection to the Ghislain family.”

“What can I do?”

“Nothing yet. There’s still no word on a time or place for Grand Duchess Florianne’s peace talks,” Leliana told her. “If I find a way for you to get into Celene or Gaspard’s good graces, I will let you know.”

“Thank you,” Ciri said. “And Leliana, please tell me these things as they come up. I don’t like wondering.”

“Understood, Inquisitor.” Leliana inclined her head. “I’ll be more timely with my information in the future.”

Ciri went back down the spiral stairs, passing the library and exiting into the rotunda. Solas wasn’t present. She lingered for a moment, her eyes caught by the stunning artwork on the wall.

Two panels had been painted in vivid colors with sharp geometric lines, deceptively simple in their beauty. The first was clearly meant to be the explosion at the Temple of Sacred Ashes, and the creation of the Breach. And the second, with the downward-pointing flaming sword and howling wolves, was less clear in its symbolism, though Ciri guessed it must represent the founding of the Inquisition.

Faint tracery showed a third panel in progress. A figure stood between two identical paths to two identical castles. Ciri grimaced. She’d earn no prizes for cleverness guessing the meaning of that one.

She turned and left, not wanting to wait for his return. Of everyone she knew, she suspected he’d be the most helpful when it came to deciphering her strange dream about preserving the Veil. But his words about Owain still irked her a week later, and she had no desire to give him the opportunity to voice his opinion again.

The Veil and Solas could be put off for a little while longer. The undercroft and her sword awaited her.

She crossed the main hall, nodding and smiling to passing scouts and workers and managing brief greetings for the idling nobles at the tables, and she let herself into the undercroft through the door by the throne. The roaring waterfall and Dagna’s beaming face greeted Ciri as she entered the forge.

“Come in, come in!” Dagna called out. She stood beside her bench, a cloth tossed across it hastily. “You’re right on time.”

“She’s been ready for you for over an hour,” Harritt said, eyeing Dagna in amusement. “She hasn’t been able to stop bouncing since she put the final touches on the hilt.”

“Oh, hush,” Dagna said, flapping a hand at Harritt. “Come! Come look!”

Ciri drew closer, and Dagna whipped away the cloth with a flourish.

“Oh, Dagna.” Ciri reached out, her eyes glued to the sword before her in wonder. “It’s beautiful.”

The arcanist had faithfully reproduced her old gwyhyr with Thedosian materials, from the long, thin blade to the downward-angled crossguard and the open pommel. The metal shone silvery-white in the light of the forge. She tilted her head, and a dark blue sheen crossed its surface, deep and pure as ice in midwinter.

Her hand itched to wrap around its gray leather hilt, and at Dagna’s encouraging nod, she took it up, marveling at its balance and weight. Subtle runes flashed in the light, trailing down the length of the blade.

“I managed to work in both of your requests, plus a little extra,” Dagna said. “If you don’t get hit in combat for a few seconds, your energy will start to come back.”

“That will be useful,” Ciri said, still tilting it back and forth in the light admiringly. “Good thinking.”

“We tested it on a dummy before asking you to come down. It’s still there if you want to try it yourself,” Dagna said. She gestured to a battered-looking dummy standing away from the equipment.

Ciri nodded and walked to the dummy. She rolled her shoulders, set her stance, and struck out.

High! Low! High! A backhand strike, a lunge, a thrust! She couldn’t hold back her grin. It felt light and strong in her hands, with a balance only a master swordsmith could achieve. The edge was keen, slicing into the armored dummy’s sides and leaving a cold glimmer of frost on the edges of the rents. With a sword like this, she could dance.

“I love it,” she said, turning back to Dagna. “It’s all I’d hoped for.”

Dagna matched her grin. "That's some of my best work, Inquisitor. I'm glad you like it. Oh! Harritt made you a scabbard, too – out of quillback leather, to match the grip. You could use your old one if you wanted, but we thought a change would help."

“It does,” Ciri said. “Thank you, both of you.”

Harritt brought over the scabbard, and Ciri sheathed her new sword reluctantly. She ran her fingers over the beautifully tooled leather, smiling softly at the little birds and five-petaled flowers.

“What will you call it?” Harritt asked with a nod toward the sword. “Your last one had a name.”

“ _Gynvael_ ,” Ciri said.

Harritt’s brow creased in confusion. “Funny sort of name.”

 _Hotspurn would call me pretentious for the symbolism_.

“But a worthy one.” She tucked her sword under her arm and held out her marked hand to Dagna. “I haven’t forgotten. Would you like to look at it now?”

“Oh!” Dagna exclaimed. “Oh, yes! Wait just a moment!”

Dagna rushed off to a workbench and hurried back with a few delicate, dangerous-looking tools and a flat metal plate. With great care, she scraped the edges of the mark over the plate with a strange hooked instrument, then very precisely sliced off the top layer of skin right along one of the openings.

“Did that hurt?” Dagna asked.

“No, it’s fine.”

Dagna squinted at the flakes and shavings of skin on the plate and beamed. “Great! That should give me plenty to examine. I’ll let you know if I find anything interesting.”

“I look forward to it,” Ciri said. “And thank you again.”

She left the undercroft with a bounce in her step, _Gynvael_ held close to her chest. She hated that she’d lost _Zireael_. But this seemed a worthy successor. She couldn’t wait to show it to Olgierd and Owain.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for your feedback! I like knowing I've entertained you with an update.


	34. Wardens and Bandits

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ciri arrives at Crestwood and meets Hawke's Warden friend. The mayor explains the village's woes and directs them to the keep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> beta-read by brightspot149 -- thank you!
> 
> Note for all you eagle-eyed DA2 players with a question for me and/or worry about Anders apologia: check the endnotes!

Rain lashed Ciri and her companions as they rode into the forward camp on the outskirts of Crestwood. The downpour wasn’t enough to wash away the lingering scent of decay, and as the scouts came to take their horses, she shielded her eyes and looked to the dark, churning lake.

“Yeah,” Scout Malika said, coming up beside her. “Don’t know how you’ll get to _that_ one.”

The ‘that’ in question was a faint emerald green glow emanating from beneath the water.

Ciri sighed. “Damn it all. What does the mayor have to say about all this?”

“Bandits in the fort, dead rising, dragon by the shore,” Malika said with a shrug. “The usual.”

“More undead?” Dorian asked as the others joined them. “It’s a good thing you brought a Mortalitasi this time, my friend.”

“You were invited to the plague bog,” Ciri reminded him.

“Yes, and I’m regretting coming along this time, now that I’ve had a good look at the lake.”

Blackwall scoffed. “City boy. Did you ever fix your boots?” He smiled at Scout Malika and added with gruff charm, “You slipped out while I was sleeping, minx.”

She grinned, unashamed. “You looked too cute lying there in the hayloft, straw in your beard. I couldn’t bring myself to wake you.”

“Next time, do.”

“Where can we find the mayor?” Ciri asked, drawing the conversation back to business.

Malika pointed down the sloping hill toward the small town. “He has the nicest house in the village, toward the top. That isn’t saying much, mind you. But we saw some Wardens wandering the area a few days ago, so you may want to get a move on finding Hawke’s contact first.”

Ciri turned to Hawke, who gave an uneasy shrug.

“We kept him waiting for over a month, Inquisitor. The meeting won’t take more than an hour at most, then he can relocate to keep ahead of the Wardens.”

“If his information is that vital, I suppose we should seek him out first,” Ciri said, casting another glance at the lake. “We’ll move on Crestwood’s problems immediately after. Olgierd, do you suppose Adventure will try to help with the rift down there?”

Olgierd crossed his arms. “I think he hasn’t the sense of a gnat about to be swatted. He’ll come, and he’ll have a grand time of it until he gets himself killed or sucked through.”

“Then I hope for his sake he finds some common sense before we find a way down there.” Ciri looked around at her companions and Hawke as they did a last-minute check of their weapons and armor. “Everything in order?”

“Bianca doesn’t like this weather, but she’ll hold out,” Varric said, squinting at his crossbow’s intricate gears.

“All fine here, Inquisitor,” Blackwall said. “Just eager to learn more of what’s happening with the Wardens.”

“We’ll get our answers,” Ciri assured him.

She felt for Blackwall. The gruff Warden had been stunned to hear Hawke’s tale, and desperate to come along for the journey. He was a principled man, devoted to the ideals of the Grey Wardens, and at a loss to explain what was happening. His time as a lone recruiter had left him sadly bereft of any useful knowledge. But she understood his torment. If someone were to tell her that the Witchers of the School of the Wolf had all disappeared, and rumor had them taking on assassin contracts like Cat School Witchers, she’d travel to the ends of the Continent for answers.

“You know the way?” she asked Hawke.

Hawke nodded. “Stroud gave me directions. He’s up in the hills. This way.”

“See you ‘round, Your Handiness,” Malika said, waving them off. She winked at Blackwall. “Bye, handsome.”

Blackwall shook his head and smiled. “Until later.”

Varric’s friend led the way down the slope, her head ducked against the driving rain. The scent of decay grew stronger as they drew closer to the village. Hawke jerked her head and indicated a washed-out path along the back side of Crestwood, up toward the hills.

They followed in her footsteps. Ciri was pleased to see Dorian was more sure-footed this time, and she chanced a look down at his feet to find sturdy boots with better soles. No hobnails, though, she noted with a smile. 

It was difficult to see past the rain, though somehow Hawke seemed to know exactly where she was headed. Shapes moved in the distance, some big and lumbering, others sleek and predatory. She flinched away from a jutting spire of red lyrium, humming ominously at a pitch she could almost hear.

Varric gave it a wide berth, eyeing it warily. “Andraste’s ass, what’s this shit doing all the way out here?”

“It seems to appear wherever we find red Templars,” Olgierd pointed out. “We should be wary.”

Ciri agreed, and they continued on.

“Here,” Hawke said as they arrived at the mouth of a damp-looking cave.

The ground outside was disturbed, the soil loose. Someone had been digging there. Ciri eyed the patch of dirt. It looked long and wide enough for more than one body to lie there.

They made their way into the cave, winding past luminous mushrooms and stalactites as it grew oppressively darker. Olgierd summoned fire to his hand, and they all collectively flinched and looked away from the sudden brightness.

“Apologies,” he murmured.

"No, I should have thought of it first," Hawke said. She gestured ahead of herself to a splintered wooden wall jammed across the width of the cave and a graffitied door of a skull with a slash of black paint across its eyes. "We're here."

She knocked briskly. “Stroud. It’s me. I brought the Inquisitor.”

Silence, then very quiet footsteps padded in their direction from beyond the door. The door swung open with a creak, and a sternly handsome middle-aged man looked out, his face pale and eyes dark. His mustache bristled impressively as his gaze swept over his visitors.

“You brought more than just her, Hawke,” he said, an Orlesian accent coloring his words.

“We have business in the area after meeting you,” Ciri said. “I apologize for keeping you waiting.”

“I know how to keep out of sight,” Stroud told her. “My fellow Wardens never came close, though a couple of those strange Templars ventured a little too far into the cave for my comfort. Come in, quickly.”

Stroud shut the door behind them as they filed past them into the back of the cave. Candles flickered in nooks and crannies around the walls, and a bedroll lay half-unrolled against the far wall. The previous occupants had furnished it minimally. The table and single chair stood in the center by an unearthly statue of a kneeling, faceless man gripping his head carved from a massive stalagmite.

“As Hawke said, my name is Stroud,” the Warden said with a nod. “I am at your service, Inquisitor.”

“And we’ll do our best to help you,” Ciri said. “I understand the Wardens face their own troubles.”

“That is something of an understatement.” He raised his eyebrows at the griffon embossed on Blackwall’s breastplate and added, “But I see you have a Warden with you already, Inquisitor. Surely he’s told you what we face?”

“Warden Blackwall is as in the dark about Corypheus as we are,” Ciri said. “He came to hear it from you.”

Blackwall looked uncomfortable to be put on the spot, but he nodded in agreement. “If the Wardens fall, the whole world’s fucked. We need to know how to fix it.”

“Warden-Constable Blackwall?” Stroud asked. “I’m familiar with your reputation, ser. The Inquisitor is lucky to have you.”

“Aye, well. I’m lucky to serve.” He shifted uneasily.

“The Wardens’ troubles – is that due to Corypheus?” Ciri asked.

“I fear it is,” Stroud said. “I suspected there was more to Corypheus after Hawke slew him in the prison tower. Weisshaupt was happy to assume the matter was finished, but Hawke’s story made me suspicious. This darkspawn possessed powers similar to an archdemon, and so I wondered if it had the same ability to survive wounds that seemed fatal.

“My investigation uncovered no solid proof to confirm my suspicions, but not long after, every Grey Warden in Orlais began to hear the Calling.”

“‘Not good’ seems like an understatement,” Hawke said, “but unless my memory’s going, you never told me any of this.”

“I am still a Grey Warden,” Stroud said. “I could not break my oaths so lightly.”

“My brother’s a Warden!” Hawke protested.

“And he would tell you the same.”

“What is the Calling, exactly?” Ciri asked.

“The Calling tells a Warden that his end is near, that the Blight will soon take him,” Stroud told her gravely. “It begins with dreams of darkness. Then, as a whisper in the back of his mind, a song he half-remembers. Soon he finds himself humming it. The Warden says his farewells and ventures to the Deep Roads to meet his end.”

“And every Grey Warden in Orlais is hearing that right now?” Hawke asked.

Stroud nodded. “Yes. Corypheus is likely behind it.”

“And is this real?” Ciri pressed. “Are they truly dying?”

“I cannot be certain, but the effect it’s having on morale is the same,” Stroud said. “The Wardens believe it is real, and they will act accordingly. If I know the Warden-Commander of Orlais, she will attempt to strike a final, decisive blow against the Blight before we all die.”

“So, something desperate, and possibly foolish,” Hawke summed up. “The Wardens are scared. Corypheus has them vulnerable.”

“Are you hearing the Calling as well?” Ciri asked. “And you, Blackwall?”

“Sadly, yes.” Stroud looked grim. “The creature that makes this music has never known Andraste’s light, but...at times, I almost understand it.”

“Worrying about the Calling only gives it strength,” Blackwall told her. “It’s not my time yet. Corypheus and his army come first.”

Stroud seemed surprised by the firmness of Blackwall's rebuttal but nodded in agreement. Olgierd frowned slightly.

“What of the Ferelden Wardens?” Ciri asked. “We sent a message to King Alistair after Hawke arrived at Skyhold, but Leliana said their Wardens disappeared too, months ago.”

“And so they did,” Stroud said, the grim lines retreating from his face. “When the Calling began to affect us, Warden-Constable Howe retreated with the Ferelden Wardens to Soldier’s Peak. They’ve been sheltering there for months. They sent me a message a while ago telling me to trust no one from the Orlesian branch.”

“Will any of them be able to help us?”

"It would be unwise to expose more Wardens to Corypheus and his lackeys," Stroud said. "He is one of the original darkspawn, and immensely powerful. He speaks with the voice of the Blight, and has the power to bend Wardens' minds since we are tied to the Blight as well."

"So what do you need from us, Warden Stroud?" Ciri asked. "I'm not well-versed in breaking mind control, and I'm not sure how to go about convincing your fellow Orlesian Wardens that they aren't in fact dying."

“There are eight Ferelden Grey Wardens, including the King and Queen of Ferelden,” Stroud said. “There are over two hundred Orlesian Grey Wardens. If they all get themselves killed by Corypheus’ manipulations, there won’t be enough Grey Wardens to stop the next Blight, and it will consume the world. We are the only ones who can stop it.

“Warden-Commander Clarel proposed a blood magic ritual to end all future Blights before we all perished. I protested it as madness, and my own comrades turned on me. Grey Wardens are gathering here,” he said, pointing to the map, “in the Western Approach. There’s an ancient Tevinter ritual tower. Meet me there and we’ll find answers.”

He gave Ciri another short nod and began a short circuit around the cave, gathering his bedroll and other sundries.

“You’re leaving already?” Varric asked.

“I’ve been here too long as it is,” Stroud said. “The Templars will come to investigate what became of their brethren soon. Farewell, Inquisitor, Hawke.”

The wooden door creaked shut behind him, and Ciri turned to her companions and Hawke. “That was concerning. Thoughts, anyone?”

“People – rational, well-adjusted people – don’t just decide to try blood magic out of nowhere,” Dorian said with grim certainty. “My bet? Corypheus, or one of his people, has already reached the Wardens and planted seeds.”

“I’m not entirely opposed to the concept of blood magic if it’s practiced safely and ethically,” Hawke said. “Varric and I have a dear friend who’s a blood mage. But you’re right. The Warden-Commander is likely being led by the nose, and she can’t even see it.”

“You have to have an opinion on this, Red,” Varric prompted Olgierd.

Olgierd shook his head. “On blood magic? Nothing worth sharing. On this Warden matter? We’d best tread carefully. If desperate people are pushed too hard, they might run straight into the arms of the ones we’re trying to save them from.”

“If Corypheus hasn’t gathered them in his welcoming embrace already,” Ciri said. “Blackwall, you’ve been quiet. Are you all right? This must have been hard to hear.”

“We have a plan and a goal,” Blackwall said firmly. “We stop the blood magic ritual and free the Wardens, and end this darkspawn bastard’s miserable life. Whatever else he comes up with will only strengthen my resolve.”

“Good man,” Dorian said, clapping him on the shoulder.

“But we’d best get to it, Inquisitor. I doubt they’ll wait for us to finish here,” Blackwall said.

“To Crestwood, then,” Ciri said. “Let’s find out what the mayor has to say about that rift in the lake.”

* * *

Mayor Gregory Dedrick looked as if he hadn’t slept in a week, deep circles etched beneath tired blue eyes set in a wan, pale face. “This is the new Crestwood,” he explained wearily. “We rebuilt after the Blight. Ten years back, darkspawn broke into the keep and damaged the sluice controls. Wrecked them. There was a terrible flood. Many drowned – refugees from other villages, people infected with the Blight. And some of our own. But now...now they try to return to us. Will the Maker not show mercy, Lady Hand? Will his Hand not intervene to save us?”

Ciri bit back the instinctive protest at the desperation in his eyes. “Their bodies are possessed by spirits coming through the rift below the lake. We’ve seen this before, in the Fallow Mire. Is there any way down there? Can we use the dam controls somehow to drain it?”

“ _Drain_ the – I don’t know.” The mayor heaved a sigh. “You’d have to clear the bandits from Caer Bronach. They took up residence months ago, been a plague on trade in the area ever since. We wrote to Bann Franderel of West Hill for aid, but the problems of one fishing village are beneath his concern.”

“Bandits along a trade route should worry him greatly,” Ciri said. “We’ll see to it – and we’ll look into what’s delayed your lord.”

“Thank you, Lady Hand. That’s a weight off my mind.”

“We heard there were Grey Wardens here a few days ago,” Blackwall said. “Do you know where they went?”

“They didn’t speak much, just said they were looking for someone,” Mayor Dedrick said. “Jana, one of our villagers, left with them. It’s a shame. She’s a good girl, well-liked by everyone. She’ll be missed here, but she always had her eye on some adventure or another.”

“It’s a pity we weren’t here to dissuade her,” Olgierd said.

Blackwall looked like he was about to argue, but he sighed instead. “Aye. The Wardens are no place for a young girl right now, though I admire her bravery.”

“If you run into her, please ask her to come back,” Mayor Dedrick said, “or at the very least, to be careful.”

“We will,” Ciri promised. “Thank you, Mayor Dedrick. Unless there’s anything else, we should be off.”

“Take the path out that follows the shoreline,” the mayor told them. “You’ll reach the keep soon.”

They left the mayor’s modest home, ducking their heads against the rain still pounding down in sheets. A voice hailed them, hoarse and frantic, and Ciri turned to see a slightly chubby, pink-cheeked man with large ears hustling their way, waving his arm.

“My Lady! Lady Hand!” He took a deep breath as he caught up to them, staring at Ciri in awe. “You can help, surely you can. The Maker’s own Hand, here in front of me…”

“What do you need help with?” Ciri asked with strained politeness.

“It’s my friend, Judith,” the man explained. “She lives by herself on a little farm out past Caer Bronach, refuses to consider living in the village. Too crowded, she says! But with the undead and the bandits, and that dragon by the shore, I’m in fear of her life. Please, Lady Hand, Your Worship, will you see that she’s all right?”

Ciri’s ‘no’ faltered in the face of the man’s earnest plea. “We’ll check on her after we’ve cleared out the bandits and closed that rift.”

“A thousand blessings on you and your Inquisition, Lady Hand! I know Judith will be pleased to get company.”

The man hurried away, and Blackwall shook his head.

“More to do here in Crestwood. But I wouldn’t have turned him down either.”

“Any more requests like that, and you’ll have to delegate to the scouts,” Dorian said. “That _is_ what they’re here for, after all.”

“It’s not their main purpose, but you’re right,” Ciri agreed. “We can’t waste too much time here.”

“Do they normally venerate you like that?” Hawke asked quietly as they set off down the main path to Crestwood’s front gates.

“I haven’t had much exposure to it,” Ciri told her, equally low-voiced. “The Inquisition troops have been fairly professional, save for one unnerving incident. And the last time I left Skyhold, I only encountered undead and Avvar. This is new to me.”

She disliked it intensely. Even Mayor Dedrick showed shades of it. Given a choice, she’d prefer the Orlesians. Spite was easier to handle.

“The Avvar called you god-marked,” Olgierd reminded her. “Have the Chantry’s tales truly spread so far?”

“A problem for later,” she said, closing her marked hand at his words.

They found the path the mayor spoke of with ease and left Crestwood behind. Cold rain slid down the back of Ciri's armor and plastered her hair to her head. She wiped a wet strand from her forehead irritably. When they got back to Skyhold, she'd see about commissioning a hood or a helmet from Harritt and Dagna.

“There,” Varric said after several quiet minutes of muddy tramping. He pointed past Ciri with a thick, gloved finger at a dark, sturdy building half-hidden by the heavy rain. It looked like solid stonework, with crenellations along the parapets. She squinted, thinking she spotted movement.

“Does anyone have a better idea than a frontal approach?” she asked. “Because I suspect that may be suicide.”

“Yes,” Hawke said, waggling her fingers at Ciri. “A frontal approach, with _magic_.”

Dorian laughed in delight. “Oh, I like you. What’s your specialty?”

“Force mage, with a bit of primal and entropy magic thrown in for fun,” Hawke said. “And you, you’re a necromancer?”

Olgierd raised his eyebrows at that.

“The term is Mortalitasi, my dear Hawke,” Dorian tutted. “Necromancy is what the uneducated call it. But either way, I suspect I’ll be of greater service after we defeat the bandits.”

Ciri eyed the keep and nodded reluctantly. “If there’s no other way in, then I suppose so. But no charging ahead. I don’t want anyone getting cut off and surrounded.”

“We could search for a back entrance if you fear being overwhelmed," Blackwall offered.

“Don’t worry, Inquisitor,” Hawke said. “Varric and I have faced worse with fewer people.”

And Ciri had faced the full force of the Wild Hunt with only fifteen other people, but that was no reason not to be cautious now. She’d lost Vesemir that day because she’d been impetuous.

“As danger goes, bandits are fairly paltry,” Ciri agreed. “I just don’t like not seeing the terrain. And it’s never wise to underestimate your opponent. My father nearly died from a peasant’s pitchfork once, and he’s a trained swordsman.”

“We’ll be careful, Songbird,” Varric said.

They advanced on the keep, shooting glances up at the walls as they went. Shadowy figures seemed to shift and duck out of sight up above, and Ciri preemptively cast a barrier over herself and Olgierd. Hawke and Dorian followed suit, covering the rest of the party in the thin layer of magical armor.

"There's the gate," Hawke said, drawing her staff from her back. The blood-red gem atop it shone dully in the rain. "Shall I knock?"

“It’s only polite to announce ourselves,” Ciri said. “We wouldn’t want to be rude.”

Hawke grinned and swung her staff in a tight arc. The air rippled, and a massive boulder shot forward, crashing through the gates with the force of a dozen battering rams. Pained cries and curses within followed.

“Hi, honey!” Hawke called out. “I’m home!”

She leaned to the side as an arrow narrowly missed her head.

“I think they know we’re here now,” Dorian said dryly.

Ciri refreshed the barrier and unsheathed _Gynvael_. “ _Go_.”

They charged over the splintered remains of the gates. Blackwall struck down a snarling war dog, raising his shield to deflect another arrow. Ciri lashed out at an approaching bandit with an arcane bolt. The archer screeched as Hawke raised her hand and flung him skyward, then yanked him back to earth, laughing.

The fight was quick and brutal, but even as Ciri stopped to catch her breath she could hear shouts of alarm from deeper within the keep. She beckoned her companions to follow her as she ventured up the stairs past the entryway.

The bandits were ready for them in the next courtyard, bristling with weapons and spitting mad. Hawke whooped and swung her staff. With cries and curses, they collided in a tangle of arms and legs. Another gesture and they went soaring into the air.

“Leave some for us,” Varric complained.

Hawke let them fall, and Ciri couldn’t help wincing at the chorus of cracks and thuds. “Don’t be greedy, Varric. I haven’t had a good fight in ages.”

With a lazy sweep of his staff, Dorian called down blue-white lightning, and it jumped from bandit to injured bandit, drawing pained moans and whimpers. “Really, this is just unsporting.”

Olgierd sighed and waded into the fray, roughly turning over the bandits with his foot and pinning one in place at swordpoint when it looked like he might attempt to get up.

“They’re in no condition to stand, let alone fight,” he called over. “Leave them be for now, and we can turn them over to face the king’s justice later.”

“Maker, no,” the bandit he held at swordpoint protested muzzily. “I won’t go to the scaffold! Ye can’t make me! If ye’ve any mercy in ye, ye’ll cut my throat.”

Ciri walked over and squatted by his side. “Why didn’t Bann Franderel do anything about your group when the mayor asked for help?”

“Mercy, lady, please –”

“Answers first,” Ciri said, feeling an unwelcome sting of pity. He really was a sorry sight, dirty, bruised, and broken, in piecemeal armor. “Why?”

“I don’t know, honest! Somethin’ about the taxes, not wantin’ to pay. Our chief gave him a cut of the spoils. Please, lady –”

“How many of Crestwood’s villagers starved because merchants and traders never reached them?” Ciri asked. “How many of their people have you killed?”

“We was starvin’ ourselves when we took the fort! A man’s got to eat somehow.” He faltered. “Had to keep the villagers away...make an example of a couple of the brave ‘uns. Chief’s idea.”

“Hurry it up,” Hawke said quietly as a commotion grew on the landing above.

“The king’s courts will judge you,” Ciri told him.

The bandit lunged forward, his eyes desperate, and Olgierd cut him down.

“Damn it,” Ciri sighed.

“He didn’t want to die a public spectacle, with a noose around his neck,” Olgierd said as he turned toward the stairs to the landing. “You can’t save them all, Ciri.”

They left the groaning and broken bandits behind, Hawke taking the lead up the stairs. Varric’s friend smashed an approaching warrior into the far wall with a summoned boulder. Ciri leaped to engage a bandit, eager to try out _Gynvael_ in true combat.

Her new sword left frost-covered gouges in the bandit’s armor, and he stumbled back, teeth chattering from the cold. A swift thrust and he fell, rime on his lips. She turned to find another opponent.

Varric shot the last of them through the eye-hole in their helmet and indicated the final landing above them. “Think we’ll find the ‘chief’ up there?”

“Only one way to find out,” Blackwall said.

“I want to take him alive,” Ciri told the others firmly. “He can give evidence against the bann.”

Hawke snorted as they started walking again. “You think the courts are going to listen to a bandit over a noble?”

“I think I’m going to have the scouts strip this place for evidence from top to bottom,” Ciri said. “The bandit chief is just insurance.”

Down the hall and up the stairs they went. Ciri and Dorian recast the barrier spell as they reached the top of the flight. An arrow thudded off Blackwall’s shield, and Ciri looked past Hawke’s shoulder to see a hulking man in hide and mail leading a small group of bandits their way.

“At them!” the man roared, pointing his maul at Ciri’s companions. “I want their insides on their outsides, you hear me?”

Hawke grinned. “That sounds like an invitation!”

“Alive, Hawke!” Ciri called after her as she bounded away, staff swinging.

They hurried after Hawke, catching up just as she swung her staff and pounded the butt into the stone floor. A wave of energy rippled out, passing over Ciri harmlessly. Her blade flickered out, biting at a suddenly-sluggish bandit’s side. With aching slowness, the bandit raised his sword to parry. But she was already attacking again. He fell at her feet, time abruptly catching up to him in death.

The bandit chief was no match for their skill and numbers, and a swift hit upside the head with Blackwall’s shield laid him low. The rest fell quickly.

“That’s a useful spell,” Ciri commented, and added, eyeing the insensate bandit chief, “does anyone have any rope?”

“Borrow one of Dorian’s belts,” Blackwall suggested with a smirk.

“I’d have to burn it when I got it back,” Dorian retorted. “No, I’m sure there’s rope around here somewhere. Varric, come take a look with me?”

“Right behind you, Sparkler.”

Ciri looked about at the wet keep, rain still pouring down in torrents. “We’ll need permission from King Alistair to stay here, but I don’t want to leave it empty in case Bann Franderel sends more bandits Crestwood’s way. Someone should run back to camp and tell the scouts to relocate here.”

“I’ll go,” Blackwall volunteered. “You have all the muscle you need for the demons in the lake with the Champion, Inquisitor. I don’t expect I’m leaving you short-handed.”

Hawke had certainly been fearsome in battle. “Stay safe, Blackwall,” Ciri said. “We’ll meet you back here when it’s over.”

"Aye, same to you," he said with a nod and turned to leave.

At Ciri’s feet, the bandit chief stirred. Hawke jabbed her staff at him, and he fell back asleep with a whimper.

“Nightmare spell,” she said at Olgierd’s look. “I tried to learn the sleep spell, but I kept making the nugs I was practicing on comatose. I’m absolutely terrible at minor spells. But what’s the fun in that, right?”

Olgierd smiled at that. “I do appreciate a bit of showmanship.”

“It’s good to have you with us,” Ciri said, walking over to the nearest dead body. She closed his eyes and straightened his sprawled limbs. “Far more would be dead had you left with Stroud.”

“They’re going to die anyway,” Hawke pointed out. “Us now or a rope later, a bandit’s days are numbered.”

“That’s true,” Ciri said softly. In her mind’s eye, she could see her friends’ heads hanging from Bonhart’s saddle. “Bandits don’t get happy endings.”

She took a steadying breath and moved on to the next body. Without a word, Olgierd joined her in her grim task, and she shot him a grateful look.

“Nice job, Hawke, really put your foot in it there,” Hawke muttered. She came to assist Ciri with the dead archer. “I guess I touched a sore spot. I apologize.”

“It’s fine,” Ciri said. “You couldn’t have known.”

“Anders and I have been very impressed with all that you’ve done,” Hawke continued. “Varric’s been keeping us updated. Recruiting the mages from the Witchwood, allying with Fiona and her rebellion… If it weren’t for the Chantry and your Commander, Anders could almost trust your organization. But you’re doing good work.”

Ciri led the way back down to the next landing. “How did that happen? The Chantry explosion?”

“Peaceful resistance wasn’t cutting it. Meredith’s grip on the city and the mages was too tight, and Elthina refused to intervene. Something needed to be done.”

“But an explosion? What of the casualties?”

Hawke shrugged. “He set it off at night. There were less than a dozen people in the Chantry, and the rubble only caused structural damage to the lower parts of the city. I do feel bad about that part, but I don’t regret helping.”

“You’re describing murder.”

“And hundreds, _thousands_ of mages are free thanks to Anders,” Hawke said sharply. “It provoked Meredith into action, showed her for what she was. Mages rose up across Thedas because Anders was brave enough to take the first step.”

Ciri just looked at her, at a loss for words. This was the woman from Varric’s tales, the brave, funny, heroic Champion? She understood at once why Varric had called her polarizing.

“Hey!” Varric called from over the railing. “Found some rope!”

“Bring it along once you’ve secured their chief,” Olgierd called back. “I think Hawke’s victims are getting restless.”

Once they were all secured, Dorian said, “We found a door out the back overlooking the dam and a building. That’s likely where we’ll find the controls.”

“Let’s get going, then,” Ciri said. “I doubt we can get a fire started for the bodies in this weather.”

“The scouts will take care of things,” Olgierd assured her. “You did right by them.”

She nodded slightly, the image of the desperate bandit’s final moments flashing before her eyes again. He’d looked a little like Reef beneath the dirt, she thought, though that may have been her imagination playing tricks on her.

Back up the stairs they went, following Dorian and Varric to the exit out the back. The door opened smoothly on well-oiled hinges. It led out to a wet, grassy slope and a stone bridge that widened to a sturdy dam topped by a small building. They proceeded across the slippery grass carefully, the rain still pouring down in buckets.

At the end of the bridge, a faded wooden sign banged and squeaked outside the door in the gusty wind. Varric peered up at it.

“The Rusted Horn,” he read. “Are we sure we’re in the right place for the dam controls? This looks like a tavern.”

“There’s nowhere else it could be,” Ciri pointed out. “Let’s have a look about anyway.”

They entered cautiously in case the bandits might be here as well, but the interior was dark and still. Olgierd, Hawke, and Dorian summoned small flames to their hands and went around the room lighting candles and lanterns. The sign outside was no lie; it was a tavern, and it had clearly seen a great deal of use before the bandits had arrived. But the coat of dust on the tables and chairs and the cold hearth told of its months-long abandonment.

“Back here, Inquisitor,” Hawke called over from the far end of the tavern.

Ciri joined her and frowned at the sight of the intact controls. “Correct me if I’m mistaken, but didn’t the mayor say this was wrecked? I can’t imagine the darkspawn or undead in here with a hammer and saw fixing things.”

“Think he was covering for someone?” Varric asked as he came up behind them.

“It’s a good question. Let’s ask him when we’ve taken care of his problem.”

They each took up position at one of the heavy spokes and, with a heave and a shove, began to turn the gears to the sluice gates. It resisted, the wheel's base full of dust and cobwebs, but finally, they heard a groan and a dull roar. The floor vibrated slightly beneath their feet.

“That’s that,” Hawke said with satisfaction. “Let’s go see a lake about a rift.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, Hawke is lying about the death toll from the Chantry explosion. Her reasons why are addressed later.
> 
> Thank you all so much for your feedback! I like knowing I've entertained you with an update.


	35. Adventure and Lesser Evils

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ciri ventures into Old Crestwood and the caves below with Hawke and her companions to discover what befell the inhabitants ten years before.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beta-read by brightspot149. Thank you!

A massive shape flew over their heads as they left the tavern, passing them with an angry screech and a beat of heavy wings. Ciri followed the dragon’s path with her eyes, her heart dropping.

“Are dragons sentient?” she asked Dorian. “Magical?”

He inclined his head in thought as they walked back to the shoreline in the pouring rain. “There are tales of intelligent dragons in the days of Arlathan, but the ones you see today are more beast than being. One could argue that the Old Gods are sentient dragons, but I suspect they’re powerful spirits that took on the form of dragons rather than actual creatures ascended to godhood.”

“They really are beasts,” Hawke interjected. “Vicious things, with a fierce territorial instinct and a huge appetite. We had to kill one at a mine outside Kirkwall – it killed all the miners there, fed their bodies to its young. Now that you’ve disturbed it, it won’t be long before it turns its eyes to Crestwood.”

“Marvelous,” Ciri sighed, casting a mental apology in the direction of the Continent and Geralt’s draconic friends.

The newly uncovered lake bed was slippery with algae, and the fine, silty mud sucked at their feet as they made their way down to the bottom. Warped and waterlogged huts, half-rotted from a decade beneath the waves, began to appear as they walked on.

Ciri’s palm started to spark and tingle as she caught sight of a faint green light around the corner of a damaged hut. She drew _Gynvael_ and nodded to Olgierd, who shook his head ruefully.

“We’ll see, won’t we?”

The rift cracked open as they approached, shooting out thin streams of light that touched down on the muddy ground with a faint sizzling sound. As Ciri had half-expected, something from within the rift gave a yank, and one of the streams went flying back in.

“Be _careful_ , you big lout!” Olgierd shouted at the rift.

A faint, gleeful laugh was the only response. Then the demons were among them, and there was no time to consider their friend on the other side.

Ciri ducked a swipe of a rage demon’s claws, feeling the heat press against her face. She darted to the side and lashed out with _Gynvael_ , striking deep into its molten body. It roared and flailed, the wound steaming as ice met fire. She twisted away from another blow of its claws and struck again. It fell at her feet, dissolving into a puddle of embers and ichor.

She turned to find another opponent and raised her sword as a corpse lurched toward her, rusty blade outstretched. She parried its blow, snaking _Gynvael_ around its sword and twisting. The loss of its sword didn’t bother it. It reached for her with decayed fingers, a ghostly light in the hollow sockets of its eyes. She cut it down with a hard slash of her sword.

She looked around as the rift pulsed again. Everyone seemed to be uninjured, though Olgierd watched the rift with barely-veiled worry. The streams of light shot out again, and once more one flew back into the rift at a heave from within.

“He’s going to turn my hair gray,” Olgierd muttered.

The rift cracked with the sound of grinding glass, and Ciri spun to swing her sword through a wraith. She coughed and wheezed as corrosive gas filled her lungs. The spirit bobbed and floated away, and she followed, choking, throwing arcane bolts at its insubstantial form.

It faded and disappeared, not leaving even a trace of ichor behind. She bent over, hands on her knees, trying to catch her breath for just a second. A corpse dropped at her feet, scorch marks covering it, dagger drawn. She looked up and Olgierd nodded to her.

“Eyes open, dear.”

She coughed again and returned to the fight, lungs burning.

The rift stilled a second time as the last demon fell, and Ciri braced for another pulse. It stayed silent. She raised her hand to it, but hesitated, looking to Olgierd.

He half-smiled and shouted into the rift again. “Keep your wits about you, brother! Don’t take any stupid risks, do you understand me?”

Olgierd nodded to Ciri, and she pushed magic out through the mark and toward the rift. It answered eagerly, rushing toward the tear in the veil in a sparkling, gleaming emerald rope. She felt the connection snap into place, and with a pull and twist of her wrist, shut it for good.

She plunged her hand into her belt pouch and pulled out a regeneration potion, downing it swiftly. The burning in her lungs and throat eased slightly, then began to slowly fade as the potion started to work its magic. _Ugh_. She hated wraiths.

“So…” Hawke drawled. “Your brother is a spirit? Or a spirit thinks it’s your brother? That’s a bit odd. How do family reunions work?”

“I imagine if I were desperate enough, I could summon him up for a chat,” Olgierd said, “though it seems rude to yank a man from his home without warning. Dreams suffice.”

“Be very careful,” Hawke told him. “Not all spirits are benevolent, and they’re easily corrupted.”

“I’ve had run-ins with demons before,” Olgierd said. “I’m aware of the danger.” He dismissed the conversation with a shake of his head and turned to Ciri, holding out his hand. “Your hand?”

She placed her marked hand in his, palm up. “Did Triss tell you to keep an eye on it?”

“Solas did.” He flexed it carefully, examining the web of broken-glass lines with narrowed eyes. “Any changes?”

She stared down at the marks and, squinting a little, pointed to one. “It looks just the slightest bit longer than when we were in the Fallow Mire.”

“How does it feel? Tingling, numbness?”

“Both, but no worse than usual. And heavy, though that’s normal these days.”

He frowned. “You’ll see Triss and Solas when we get back to Skyhold. And you’ll be careful with the rift we’ve yet to deal with.”

She withdrew her hand and smiled up at him fondly. “Worry-wart. I’ll go straight to them, I promise.”

“Why didn’t you bring Chuckles along this time?” Varric asked as they began walking again.

“We had a difference of opinion, and I needed space,” Ciri said.

Varric looked mildly concerned. “Whatever he did, give him a chance to get out of your bad books, Songbird. You know how much he cares about you.”

She felt that familiar prickle of guilt and looked away. “I know.”

The mud squelched beneath her boots as they walked, and strange, knee-high lizards with odd mouths darted in and out of the abandoned homes. They stuck to the new shoreline, pressing forward in search of the rift they’d seen from shore.

Ciri’s palm sparked again, and she looked about cautiously. She didn’t see a rift anywhere, so why –

“It’s a bit like a mabari, don’t you think?” Hawke joked. “Be good if you could talk to it. ‘Here, girl! What did you see? Was it a rift? Was it magic?’”

Ciri snorted with laughter and kept walking, keeping a closer eye on her surroundings. Her hand tingled more intensely, the green light impossible to ignore. Dorian pointed past her with his staff.

“That looks interesting,” he said, a note of curiosity in his voice. “Do you think it’s Tevinter? Elvhen?”

“It’s Elvhen,” Ciri answered, approaching the artifact. “There were some in the Hinterlands, in very strange places, I might add. What this is doing here is beyond me.”

She touched her hand to its cold, wet surface and it flared to life instantly with a quiet hum. The sparking and tingling in her palm subsided at once.

“Do you know what it is?” Dorian asked.

“Solas said they create wards that help strengthen the Veil,” she said. Given her task, it seemed worth turning on every one she could find.

“Yes, but how?” Dorian pressed.

Ciri faltered. “You know, I’m not certain. They resonate with Veil magic, which is why I can activate them. But I don’t believe Solas ever fully explained how they work.”

Dorian hummed thoughtfully. "I'd love to know if you can pry an answer out of him."

“I’m sure he just overlooked it,” Ciri said. “We were quite busy with the cultists that day.”

Varric laughed and began to tell Dorian and Hawke an only slightly exaggerated version of their time in the Hinterlands, complete with animated gestures and put-on voices. Olgierd added his two coppers from time to time, wryly observant as ever. The cultists seemed less awful in the retelling, their mad fervor humorous rather than disturbing.

Around the short headland, the other half of Old Crestwood unfolded before them, damaged and forgotten. Ciri stopped and stared for a moment at the lost spirits drifting aimlessly through the empty village, soft, echoing cries trailing behind them. Her hand sparked again, and she looked about curiously, shaking it out with a grimace.

“Over there, Inquisitor,” Hawke said, pointing farther down the shoreline.

Ciri shook her head at the sight of yet another incongruously placed artifact. “These things. You know, we’ve only found one in an actual ruin?”

She brushed her hand over the surface, bringing it humming to life. Her hand quieted, and she flexed it carefully, working out the last lingering pins and needles. She headed back into the village of the dead, eyes open for any hint of what might have happened before the flood.

“No!” a sharp voice called out in irritation. “Move, I said! _Why won’t you listen_?”

Ciri dropped her hand to _Gynvael_ ’s hilt and moved cautiously in the direction of the hut containing the voice. Who could possibly have beaten them to the lake bed?

“Come here!” the voice snapped as Ciri pushed open the warped, sodden door. She stopped and stared in confusion at the reddish wraith bobbing in the center of the hut.

She took a deep breath, her lungs still slightly raw, and stepped inside, her companions close behind her.

“What are you yelling at?” she asked it politely, her hand resting on her sword.

The spirit whirled to face them. Bright marbles of light shone where eyes would be. “You there!” it demanded. “I order you to tell me why nothing here obeys me. This world is so infuriatingly stubborn! I bid the sky draw closer, and it stays away. I order the rocks to part, and they do not! _Why_?”

Hawke pushed past Ciri gently. “You haven’t been out of the Fade long, have you?” she asked. “The physical world isn’t like the Fade. Things are fixed here. You can’t just yell at a rock. You have to pick it up and move it yourself.”

“How maddening.” The spirit floated closer, its bright eyes roving over Ciri, Hawke, and Olgierd. “And intriguing. I so rarely encounter beings who know me. But you two,” she said to Hawke and Olgierd, “you’ve forgotten me. Turned your backs! No, no, I’ll have nothing to do with you.”

“What are you a spirit of?” Ciri asked.

“I am the voice that rings out when armies march,” the spirit declared. “The fates of nations change at my direction. I am Authority. I am Command.”

Hawke whistled softly. “Turned my back? Ran screaming in the other direction, more like.”

“This world doesn’t need a man like me better acquainted with command,” Olgierd said. “I’ve no desire for more authority.”

The spirit ignored them, peering at Ciri. “You. _Zireael_. Why do you fear me? I am your birthright. You had me, lost me, sought me out, rejected me, and now you accept me only reluctantly. Make up your mind!”

“I already have,” Ciri said, uncomfortably aware of Hawke and Varric’s stares. “I know what I want, and it’s not to change the fate of nations. I’ll do as I must, then go back to a quiet life without commanding anyone.”

“A pity,” Command sniffed. “But it’s your life to waste.”

Dorian leaned over Ciri’s shoulder to address Command. “We’re looking for a rift into the Fade, a big one. Do you know where we can find it?”

“Deep in the earth, where the Stone’s children used to live,” Command said, sweeping an imperious arm away from the abandoned village. “I was pulled through there. Without my leave! And then a creature of rage chased me halfway across the lake. The impertinence!”

“To think a rage demon would show such disrespect,” Dorian tutted.

“Indeed. I see you, at least, know my worth.”

“We were told that the dam controls were broken, but we found them functional,” Ciri told the spirit. “Do you know anything about that?”

It tilted its head at her. “No. But there is an air of bitterness in the hut over there, and one of guilt in the largest house. Leave me, mortals. I have a world to command. Something will obey me eventually.”

“By your leave,” Ciri said with a shallow bow to the spirit.

Silence hung over them for several seconds after they left the hut, and Ciri braced herself for the inevitable questions. Varric cleared his throat.

“It called you by your old sword’s name. A mistake, or…”

“No,” Ciri sighed. “It was no mistake.”

“I heard all those rumors about you, Inquisitor,” Hawke said. “King Alistair aside, a royal bastard doesn’t have much of a birthright. But Varric said they were just that, rumors. What did Command mean?”

“You should listen to Varric,” Ciri said. “My parents are a knight and a mage, that’s all.”

“Is it the Elvhen thing?” Varric asked.

Ciri shrugged uncomfortably and ducked into the ‘bitter’ hut. A trio of skeletons lay on the floor, the two adults bracketing the child with their bodies. She could picture it vividly, the water rushing in, too late for them to escape.

“Poor souls,” Olgierd murmured. He crossed the small hut and opened the chest against the wall, sifting through the miraculously dry belongings with gentle hands. He pulled out a diary and flipped through it, stopping on the last page.

“Here,” he said. “This mentions the refugees from the Blight the village took in. Seems their little girl took ill. The mayor had the newcomers moved into nearby caves. That must be what Command meant. They feared a plague.”

“The Blight is a terrible sickness,” Hawke said. “I’ve seen it strike a man down in a day. My brother caught it. He’d be dead if the Wardens hadn’t taken him in. They were right to fear contagion.”

“I’m starting to get a bad feeling about what happened here,” Ciri said as she looked down at the huddled skeletons again.

Dorian patted her shoulder. “Maybe there will be more answers in the other hut Command mentioned.”

They left the scene of quiet tragedy behind and moved on to the largest of the huts, situated at the top of a short flight of stairs. A half-faded wooden sign hung beside it, creaking on rusted hinges in the gusty rain.

“This is the mayor’s old house,” Hawke said, squinting up at the sign. “Let’s see what he felt guilty about, shall we?”

The interior was barren, save for a single chest. No furniture, no belongings, no bodies. Ciri’s suspicion grew stronger.

“Think he knew something the rest of them didn’t?” Varric asked as he flipped open the lid of the chest. “Huh, nothing in here but this.”

Ciri accepted the scrap of paper, surprised to find the words scrawled across it still legible. “‘The work you ordered is done,’” she read aloud. “‘Do what you want. I’ll be in the hills trying to forget it.’”

“Damn,” Varric said. “I don’t like where this is going.”

Hawke crossed her arms. “I hate it and I respect it at the same time. There’s no cure for the Blight. But I’ve been a refugee fleeing it. He likely saved dozens with the choice he made. Yet I can’t help wonder if he thought to try anything else, anything at all.”

“If he’d sent them away, he’d have risked spreading it,” Olgierd said. “But drowning...that’s a grim death.”

They didn't have the Blight on the Continent, but the Catriona plague killed tens of thousands before Keira developed a cure. She hadn't heard of anyone going so far as to kill the infected, though. The Blight seemed worse in a way since it turned its victims into ghouls in the end. Perhaps that was the difference.

“We have our answers,” Ciri said. “The mayor can wait. Let’s put these people to rest for good.”

They walked back out of the mayor’s old home and back into the rain. The village seemed darker, sadder now. The quietly wailing spirits looked pitiable to her eyes, echoes of lives cut miserably short. She turned away from the sight and began to trek in the direction Command had pointed, her companions on her heels.

Just past the village, set into the rocky face of the hillside overlooking the collection of huts, they found a boarded-up wooden door, the planks nailed across it warped and swollen from years of water.

Dorian set the end of his staff against the edge of one of the planks and levered it loose with difficulty. It twisted and broke with a wet crack.

“Good thinking,” Hawke said with approval. She joined his efforts, and in a matter of minutes, the entrance swung open to reveal a black, oppressive cave. Malodorous air washed over them, reeking of old decay.

Olgierd lobbed a small fireball into the cave. It neither grew nor shrank as it flew toward the far wall, and he turned to Ciri. “The air is foul, but it won’t kill us.”

“Then we proceed,” Ciri said.

She led the way into the black cave and out of the rain. Olgierd summoned fire to his hand, and after a moment, the tops of Hawke’s and Dorian’s staves took on a steady glow, illuminating their bleak surroundings. Several metal torches were bolted into the walls, and an opening in the far wall revealed a walkway of wooden planks and a primitive railing leading deeper into the hill.

Olgierd moved to the nearest torch. After a few seconds, it began to smoke, then smolder. Finally, it burned with a warm light. He nodded in satisfaction and went to light the others.

The planks were almost spongy beneath their feet, half-rotten from the water. Olgierd led the way, lighting each torch as they approached them. Faint dripping sounds met Ciri’s ears as they went deeper into the cave system. Tiny streams of water rolled past her feet, trickling down stalactites looming over them.

They came across the first bodies in the next open cavern. A dozen of them, perhaps, with mostly-rotted remains of bedrolls strewn about the space beneath their skeletons.

“These poor bastards,” Hawke said quietly.

“Shit,” Varric said. “I don’t want to think about it.”

Something stirred ahead of them. Ciri drew _Gynvael_ as the skeletons sluggishly stood with a rattle and clatter of bone, their empty chests wheezing.

“Dorian,” she said sharply.

“Say no more.”

He strode forward and swung his staff out in a wide, smooth arc. A faint, ethereal net the color of twilight fell over the slowly approaching undead, and he flicked his staff back with a sharp gesture. Breathy wheezes escaped the corpses as they slowly fell. The spirits inhabiting them floated free of their bodies, held in place by the net.

“We know what happened here,” Dorian told them, his voice calm and even. “We’re not the ones responsible for this travesty, but we’ll set things right. You have my word.”

The spirits bobbed in place silently for a moment, then Dorian let the net dissipate. One by one, they disappeared without so much as an aggressive gesture in their direction. As the last of them left, Dorian slumped, catching his weight on his staff.

“That – ha – was a bit much. I’ve never done more than four at a time before.”

“Thank you,” Ciri said sincerely. “Do you need a potion? To rest a bit?”

“Just give me a minute, please.”

Ciri nodded and moved to start organizing the bodies for burning. Hawke caught her upper arm in an iron grip before she could get near them.

“They’re most likely Blighted, Inquisitor,” Hawke said. “It’s a nice thought, but you shouldn’t touch them.”

“The infection lingers that long?” Ciri asked.

“There are places where the ground is still black and barren from the _first_ Blight,” Hawke said. “What it touches, it never lets go of.”

“I understand,” Ciri told her. She understood Mayor Dedrick better now, too.

Hawke let go and left her side to go stand by Varric, who muttered something to her that made her laugh under her breath. Olgierd took her place. He gave Ciri a sidelong look, reluctance written across his face.

“What is it?” she asked.

“Do you recall how Blackwall behaved when we met Stroud? How he answered your questions?” he said quietly.

“He was a bit awkward when attention turned to him,” Ciri said, matching his volume. “But that’s just Blackwall, isn’t it? He’s a private person.”

Olgierd shook his head. “There’s something off about his story. I can’t put my finger on what exactly bothers me about him. But he’s lying about something.”

“Given how we came to the Inquisition, I have a hard time holding that against him,” Ciri told him. “And didn’t you say you thought he hated himself?”

“So I did,” he said. “They may be one and the same. A lie to cover why he can’t stand to look himself in the eye.”

She just looked at him, and he smiled faintly.

“I’m fine, Ciri. You needn’t worry for me. I find life well worth living these days. My regrets may nibble at me some, but I suspect that’s true of anyone.”

“This place has been good for you,” she said softly.

“It has,” he agreed. He reached out and squeezed her shoulder gently. “As have you. You’re as true a friend as any man could hope to have.”

She smiled and briefly rested her hand on his, words failing her. She’d miss him terribly when the Inquisition ended and her mark was finally gone. Leaving him and Owain behind would hurt.

“I’m ready to get going,” Dorian announced. He sounded a bit more lively.

Ciri gave him a quick look up and down, but he seemed to have recovered from his efforts earlier. “If you’re certain.”

Olgierd led the way once more as they ventured farther into the cave. They stepped carefully, single-file, down a precariously-constructed wooden ramp that circled a deep pit, leading downward, ever deeper. He cursed as a plank creaked ominously beneath his foot.

“Mind you don’t tread on this one,” he called back. “It’s rotted through.”

A few more boards nearly gave way before they made it down to the next section. A sharp crack above their heads had Ciri raise her hand to throw up a barrier, and a heavy stalactite crashed down inches from their feet.

“I _hate_ caves,” Varric griped.

Hawke snickered. “And mountains, rain, sand, the dark, the Deep Roads, pollen, Orlesians, Antivans, the Merchant’s Guild, the Carta, Templars, mages –”

“You’re ruining my aura of mystery with my new friends, Hawke,” Varric said. “They didn’t know I hate half those things yet.”

Olgierd lit another torch, and they edged around the shattered pieces of stalactite. A faint, warm glow appeared ahead of them, and after another minute, the uneven, natural surface of the cave floor gave way to carved and polished stone stairs and walls.

“This is a Deep Roads outpost,” Varric said with a look of mild disgruntlement. “I bet the entrance is caved in, or we’d see darkspawn here, too. Or Carta, take your pick.”

“It’s marvelous!” Dorian said breathlessly as he gazed about. “Look, the whole area is still lit up!”

“You can’t beat the dwarves for ingenuity,” Hawke said. “Down there, you think?”

Ciri nodded. “I expect so. There’s nowhere left to look.”

They descended the stairs, weapons at the ready, and froze at the bottom at a faint rasping, dragging sound. Ciri leaned forward for a better view just as a giant rage demon, half as big again as a normal one, came gliding around the corner, its large molten body trailing smoke and embers.

“That’d be the ‘creature of rage,’ no doubt,” Olgierd said under his breath.

“It’s in our way,” Hawke whispered back. She shrugged and stepped forward. “Only one thing for it.”

“Damn it,” Varric cursed as Hawke whistled loudly.

The rage demon swung around to stare at them as Hawke flung a boulder at it with bone-jarring force. It skidded back with a roar, but clung to the boulder, the surface of the stone turning black and cracking from the heat.

“Oops.”

Hawke hastily applied a barrier to everyone then ran forward, throwing out another spell. Ciri was hard on her heels, sword drawn. Lightning flew past her to strike the demon as she reached it, and she lashed out with _Gynvael_ , striking hard at its side.

The demon threw the broken, half-molten boulder back in a spray of large black shards, and Ciri ducked and somersaulted away, letting them pepper her armored shoulders and back. They hit bruisingly hard, but her armor absorbed the blows. From Varric and Dorian’s curses, the others weren’t so lucky. She rolled to her feet and dove back in, slashing at the demon’s back. It reeled, the wound steaming.

Olgierd joined her, parrying its claws and cleaving at it with hard, precise strikes. He hissed as an ember hit his chest, and she renewed his barrier, thrusting _Gynvael_ deep into the demon’s fiery body.

It roared in pain and twisted to swipe at her, but she danced away, letting Olgierd step in to catch the claws on his blade. Lightning flew past them again, and a bolt sprouted from its bright, beady eye. It teetered and swayed, then fell with a groan, dissolving into embers and ichor.

“Is everyone all right?” Ciri called out.

Olgierd gingerly touched his burn. “I could do with a salve, but I’ll live.”

“Sparkler and I are pretty cut up,” Varric reported. “We’ll need a minute to let the potions kick in before we move on the rift.”

“Sorry, Varric,” Hawke said. “I didn’t think it would be that clever.”

“Ah, don’t worry about it,” Varric assured her as he downed a bright red potion. “No permanent damage done. Here, Red.”

“My thanks.” He smeared the proffered salve on the burn and covered it with a small square of loosely woven linen. “I’ll just have to hope it holds for the fight ahead.”

Ciri watched as Varric and Dorian’s dozen shallow cuts slowly shrank and stopped bleeding. Dorian touched his cheek tentatively and gave Ciri a nod.

“I think we’re fine for now.”

Varric’s prediction that the Deep Roads entrance was blocked had been right; one of the halls had collapsed in a great pile of rubble. They backtracked to the fork and turned the other way, where a short hall ended in two elaborately carved stone doors.

“Flip a coin?” Hawke suggested.

Ciri peered at the thin cracks below the doors. “That one,” she declared, pointing to the door with the faint green light gleaming from beneath.

“Right behind you, Songbird,” Varric said.

Ciri pushed it open and entered cautiously. The rift cracked to life ahead of her, huge and deadly, hanging over a giant, stalagmite-covered platform surrounded by murky water. She tossed a barrier over everyone as it sent out its thin streams of light. One went flying back in, and Olgierd swore quietly.

“That damned –”

“No time,” Dorian said as the streams of light became demons.

Ciri hung back, leery at the sight of so many wraiths. They fought from a distance, flinging arcane bolts or fireballs or lightning, or shooting crossbow bolts, in Varric’s case. Their barriers flickered at the barrage of corrosive gas but never dropped.

The rift pulsed as the last wraith disappeared. Again Adventure yanked a stream back, but it fought him this time, resisted. The tug-of-war went on for several long, tense seconds until Adventure gave a giant heave just as the demons sprang up to attack.

“ _Ha!”_

The ghostly voice echoed faintly through the cavernous room as Ciri waded to the platform, sword drawn. She ducked a swipe from a terror demon’s claws and lashed out swiftly, already on the move as its spindly legs bent to jump.

Lightning flew. Hawke cast her strange time-slowing spell. Olgierd whirled and slashed at her side. Demons fell. And the rift calmed again, only to pulse a third time.

Adventure yanked another stream in easily, his distant laugh ringing out over their heads. Ciri breathed a sigh of relief as she turned to fight once more. She dodged and parried, neatly twirling away from two terror demons before darting back in to slash at their long legs. Claws raked her mail armor with a screech, and Olgierd struck off the offending limb, drawing a scream from the demon.

Hawke and Dorian threw so much lightning the hairs on the back of Ciri’s neck began to stand on end. And Varric, strategically placed by the entrance, shot demon after demon with unerring accuracy.

The last of them fell with a wail, and Ciri raised her hand to the rift to seal it. “Thank you!” she called into it.

Adventure replied with a faint, hearty laugh. She looked to Olgierd, but he just shook his head, smiling.

“I’ll see him tonight,” he said.

Ciri shut the rift with an eager rush of magic, leaving the air still and silent in its wake. Olgierd raised an eyebrow at her, and she turned her attention to her hand, examining it carefully.

“No changes.”

“Good.”

“Well, that was bracing,” Hawke said cheerfully. “I should come along for these things more often. I rarely get the chance to fight anymore, since Anders and I have been keeping a low profile.”

“You’re very good in a fight,” Ciri said as they began walking back to the hallway. “Who taught you?”

“My father taught me most of what I know,” Hawke said. “He learned it in the Kirkwall Circle before he became an apostate. And you? Your swordplay isn’t like anything I’ve seen before. You’re very light on your feet.”

“My father taught me – like you,” Ciri told her. “And my uncles. Vesemir, Coën, Eskel, and Lambert. My mother taught me some magic, though most of what I use I learned from Solas.”

“Interesting,” Hawke said. "That's quite the family. I'm surprised they aren't better known if they all fight like you. Are your uncles knights, too?”

“No, just Geralt.”

Hawke pushed open the door facing the room that had held the rift and stuck her head in. She pulled it back out, smiling. “I feel a draft.”

“Good,” Dorian said. “I wasn’t looking forward to the journey back. Let’s see where this leads.”

It opened into a massive chamber, the stone floor covered in water that came up to their shins. They sloshed up to a short flight of stairs that led to the next room, and Ciri’s palm began to spark again.

She found another artifact tucked behind some pillars and shook her head as she turned it on. “This is a halfway reasonable place for it, but shouldn’t it be in an Elvhen ruin? Not a dwarven one?”

“Better pick Chuckles’ brain about these things when we get back to Skyhold,” Varric said. “Come on, I think that’s the door out of here.”

A small family of nugs scampered by their feet playfully as they passed out the dwarven outpost and up toward a ladder and platform a short way ahead. They snuffled and squeaked at them, completely fearless. Ciri laughed quietly. They were odd-looking, but she didn’t see why Sera found them creepy. They were a bit endearing, really.

“And Iron Bull wishes to ride a gigantic, horned version of these things?” Olgierd murmured to her. “Can you just picture it?”

“Well, _now_ I can.”

They ascended the ladder carefully, mindful of the water damage to the wood, and left the cave with no small sense of relief. Sunlight greeted them on their exit, the air fresh and cool. Ciri could see the tops of Crestwood’s collection of huts in the distance.

“Let’s go see what the mayor has to say,” she said reluctantly.

She wasn’t looking forward to dealing with this decade-old mess. It was too morally gray, too much the definition of the sort of “lesser evil” that Geralt so disliked. He’d killed dozens to save dozens, and the Blight victims were beyond anyone’s help. But she remembered the family curled together on the floor of the hut, and the spirits drifting mournfully through the abandoned village. How many of Crestwood’s people had been lost in his haste to save the healthy?

They headed down the wet, grassy hill toward the village in silence, Ciri’s mood hanging over them like a cloud.

A man intercepted her at the mayor’s door, worry twisting his face. “If you’re here for Mayor Dedrick, Your Worship, you won’t find him. He rode off not an hour ago.”

“Did he say where he was headed?” she asked.

The man shook his head. “No, not a word. He just up and left. Picked a poor time of it, too.”

“You’ve less to worry about now, at least,” she told him. “We cleared the bandits from the fort, and the undead shouldn’t trouble you any further.”

“Praise Andraste – and you, Lady Hand,” the man said with a bow. “Mayhap the mayor left you a note or some such? I’m sure he won’t mind someone like you in his home.”

She thanked him and slipped into the mayor’s home alone. A flash of pale parchment on the bed caught her eye immediately, and she picked it up, heart sinking. _Damn it_.

The villager had left when she stepped back out, and she spoke quietly to her companions. “He left a letter of confession. None of the villagers knew.”

Varric sighed. “Well, shit. Going to bring him back for trial?”

“I’ll put our scouts on it.” She didn’t want to, but the dead villagers deserved justice. “Come on, let’s get back to the keep. There’s still work ahead of us.”


	36. Wyverns and Disturbances

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ciri learns of the wyvern in the hills, and the battle against it goes in a very unexpected direction. Varric's patience reaches its breaking point, and "Avallac'h" has a stern warning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> beta-read by brightspot149. Thank you very much!

Blackwall greeted them on their return to Caer Bronach, his eyes roving over their nicks and bruises with concern. “There was trouble?”

“There’s always trouble,” Dorian said, “but we managed.”

“It’s a long story,” Ciri said at his questioning look. “Did you have trouble securing the bandits?”

Blackwall shook his head and gestured over his shoulder with his thumb. “We stuck them in a pair of empty rooms to cool their heels. Malika thought we should keep their chief separate so he didn’t stir them up. The scouts took care of the bodies. Thought you might want to know.”

“And was there evidence of Bann Franderel’s involvement?” Ciri asked.

“Aye, Malika and Scout Cyra found some letters in one of the rooms upstairs. Signed with initials, mind you, but the contents were damning.”

Ciri sighed. “I’ll write a letter to King Alistair for one of the scouts to deliver. Will you show me where I can find a desk and parchment?”

“Follow me,” Blackwall said, turning toward the stairs.

“Rest up, and tend those injuries,” Ciri told her companions. She nodded to Olgierd’s burn and the myriad small cuts peppering Dorian and Varric. “We’ll head back out after we’ve all had a bite to eat and a chance to catch our breath.”

Olgierd waved her off gently. “Don’t fret. They’re naught but scratches.”

"From the looks of you, I'd hate to know your definition of a real injury, Red," Varric said as Ciri followed Blackwall up the steps.

She missed Olgierd’s response but frowned to herself. She’d told Varric she’d tell him the truth over a month ago. Even his patience had to have its limits, and Command had certainly piqued his curiosity. She doubted he’d be poking at Olgierd over his scars again otherwise.

Her frown deepened as her eyes fell on Blackwall’s back. That was another thorny issue, and one she was reluctant to think too deeply on. He was a Warden, the closest thing to a Witcher that Thedas had. She knew he was a decent man, honorable and kind, with an earthy sense of humor and a strong drive for justice. If he was lying about something, it couldn’t be about any of that.

Could it?

She’d have to keep her eyes open. She was missing something.

Blackwall opened a door for her on the third landing. "There are writing materials in the desk," he told her. "The scouts made a note of it for you. Malika thought Sister Leliana might want to use this keep as an outpost for her agents since it’s situated so well.”

“I’ll mention that in the letter, too.” She didn’t want to earn Ferelden’s ire by seizing their land and assets, even if that was technically within the Inquisition’s remit.

Blackwall nodded and turned to leave again. “I’ll tell Scout Tavin to get a fire on for food.”

“More mutton stew?” Ciri asked half-jokingly.

“Scout Donnel caught some fish,” he said. “Three perch, and a char.”

Ciri straightened in alarm. “There’s Blight in the lake. Is that safe?”

Worry crossed his face briefly. “He caught them on the other side of the dam, so it should be fine. I saw the fish myself. They looked perfectly healthy.”

“You’re the Warden,” Ciri said, relaxing. “If you think it’s fine, I believe you.”

He cleared his throat and looked away. “Aye. Well, I’d better go get the food started. I know what fighting does for the appetite.”

Once he left, Ciri rummaged through the desk, coming up with some coarse parchment, thin black ink in a chipped horn bottle, and a quill pen with a cracked and splintered nib. She trimmed the quill carefully with her dagger, dipped it in the ink, and set to work.

She stopped almost immediately. How was she to address it? Was he a peer? Her superior? She wasn’t his subject, nor could she address him familiarly despite his friendliness in Redcliffe. And what tone should she take? She had almost half a dozen terrible things to tell him, in a letter written on something barely better than a rag.

She set quill to parchment and tried again.

_To His Majesty King Alistair Theirin of Ferelden…_

The lessons of her childhood returned to her swiftly, and she penned the letter with ease that surprised her, laying out Crestwood’s troubles, Bann Franderel’s deal with the bandits, their temporary takeover of Caer Bronach, and the men they held prisoner awaiting the king’s justice. She hesitated, then added at the end, “The architect of the Warden’s woes is the same man who had a hand in Alexius’ dealings in Redcliffe. I advise caution.”

Ciri rifled through the desk again, digging deeper in the drawers. Her fingers caught on a smooth, fine surface, and she pulled out a sheet of good quality parchment with a satisfied smile. One more dive into the desk and she found a small sack of sand and a stick of bright red sealing wax. _Much better._

She copied the letter out onto the better parchment, taking care that the thin ink didn’t drip and leave blotches, then scattered it with sand to dry it. She knocked the sand off and carefully folded her letter, standing from the desk with the sealing wax in hand.

Ciri found Olgierd by the fire down in the second courtyard with the others, running a whetstone over the edge of his saber. He had a new bandage affixed to his chest, and the dirt and grime they’d accumulated in the caves had been washed from his face and hands.

“Can you melt this for me?” she asked, holding out the sealing wax and the letter.

“You hold it steady, I’ll provide the flame,” he said and set the letter on his knee. “Do you have a seal? I could lend you mine, but it’s poor form to send correspondence under someone else’s seal.”

“I’m sure I have one back at Skyhold,” Ciri said as Olgierd summoned a tiny flame to the tip of his finger.

She held the end of the stick over the flame, and it dribbled and melted onto the fold of the parchment in a nice round blob. “That’s good, thank you.”

“Always happy to oblige.” He flicked his finger, dismissing the flame, and picked up his whetstone and saber again.

Dorian spoke up curiously. “Your control over fire magic is among the best I’ve ever seen. But I don’t recall you using anything else.”

Hawke, Varric, and Blackwall looked over at that.

“I don’t,” Olgierd said simply. “One of the hazards of being self-taught. All the magic I know, I learned out of a few dozen books and tomes of dubious provenance. The fire magic is the least troublesome.”

“It hasn’t slowed you down any,” Varric said. “But seriously, only fire spells? You don’t know anything else?”

“I didn’t say that,” Olgierd said with a strong swipe of the whetstone down his blade. “But I’ll not use the rest.”

“What about your weird Fade step?” Varric asked. “The one with the black and red smoke?”

Olgierd shot him an unreadable look. “It’s an ugly story that’s not worth the telling. Everyone is young and foolish once. Some of us are just more foolish than others.”

“True enough,” Blackwall said with an understanding nod. “The foolishness of young men.”

"Varric," Ciri said softly, and she waited until she had his attention. "Leave it alone."

Varric held his hands up. “All right. You can’t blame a dwarf for asking, though.”

Scout Tavin came down the stairs, Scouts Donnel and Cyra on his heels, all three of them bearing gently steaming plates. They handed them to Ciri and her companions, passing out forks and knives as well.

“The fish, Your Worship,” Scout Tavin said, and he jerked his head at Scout Donnel. “I cooked it, but Donnel here caught it.”

Ciri prodded the filet on her plate, and it fell apart in perfect, thick white flakes. “It looks delicious. Thank you, both of you. Oh, and here. See that this letter makes it to the palace in Denerim as quickly as possible, straight to the king’s hands.”

“At once, Lady Hand,” Scout Donnel said with a bow.

She ate with trepidation, still concerned despite Blackwall’s assurance, but it tasted marvelous. They polished off their meal quickly and began a brief inventory of weapons and equipment.

“Off to that woman’s farm?” Blackwall asked.

“Yes, and then we’ll have to take care of that dragon.” She wasn’t looking forward to that.

“I never expected I’d have to fight another dragon,” Hawke said as she stretched and twisted. Her back cracked with half a dozen muffled pops. “This should be interesting.”

“Interesting isn’t the word I’d use,” Varric said. “Painful, maybe.”

They met Malika at the broken remains of the gate, and Ciri stopped, flexing her marked hand in a nervous gesture.

“Your Handiness?” Malika prompted her.

“Mayor Dedrick rode off from Crestwood two hours ago,” she said reluctantly. “I don’t know the direction he went or his intended destination, but he ought to be brought back. For questioning, and to face justice. He flooded the old village, killed dozens of refugees infected with the Blight.”

“We’ll find him,” Malika said. “You want us to toss him in with the bandits, or put him someplace else?”

Ciri smiled despite her conflicting emotions. “We’re amassing quite a collection, aren’t we? No, somewhere else. And be gentle with him. Thank you.”

“Not a problem! Stay safe out there – you too, handsome.”

Blackwall nodded to her, affection clear in his eyes. “Take care now.”

The journey out to the nearby farmstead was short and pleasant. The tall grasses smelled sweet beneath Ciri’s feet, and the air was crisp and cool away from the lake. Small wooden cabins dotted the grassland in the distance, while rocky hills – where they’d met Stroud earlier – rose to their left.

Ciri knocked on the door of the small cabin and waited as she heard footsteps within. The door opened, and a pale face peered out to look them up and down with sharp blue eyes.

“I wasn’t expecting company,” the woman said.

“Are you Judith?” Ciri asked. “A man in Crestwood asked us to check on you. We’re with the Inquisition.”

The woman gave a short huff of laughter and opened the door wider. “Aye, I’m Judith. That must have been Gauld. He never stops worrying, poor man. Inquisition, hmm? If you’re here at my door, you must have dealt with the rest of our troubles.”

“We have,” Ciri said briefly. “The demons and undead won’t trouble your village any further, and we cleared the bandits from the keep.”

“I heard that roar when the lake drained. Must have been some job,” Judith said. She gave them another appraising look and added, “You should watch out for the wyvern in the hills. There’s all sorts of danger around here, between the mad Templars, the dragon, and the wyvern.”

Ciri straightened. “A wyvern? Where exactly?”

“Inquisitor, do we really have the time?” Hawke murmured behind her.

Judith pointed past them. “That way, in a clearing beyond a cave. I saw it when I was out picking mushrooms. I spotted those Templars in front of the cave last time I went out, though. Strange-looking men, aren’t they? They haven’t come near the village, but they look like they’re on death’s doorstep.”

“You’d do well to avoid them,” Ciri told her. “They aren’t friendly.”

“I figured as much.” Judith took a step back, her hands poised to shut the door. “Thank you for the visit, agents. If your people need anything, they know where to find me.”

They turned to leave as the door shut firmly in their faces.

“A wyvern, Inquisitor?” Hawke asked. “And it sounds like we’ll have to clear out those red Templars, too. Don’t you think we have enough to deal with? We should head back to Skyhold and then out to the Western Approach as soon as possible.”

“We ought to find out what the Templars are doing here,” Ciri countered. “As for the wyvern, we shouldn’t leave a beast that deadly alive so close to the village.”

And she was very, very curious. Months ago, she’d wondered what separated the monstrous animals of Thedas from the monsters of the Continent. Now she had a chance to find out for herself, to test Raúl’s suggestion.

Hawke just shook her head and didn’t argue further.

They passed small ponds and slow, rambling druffalo on their trek back to the hills. The homesteads she’d seen from a distance looked abandoned up close. The bandits had likely driven them out – or worse, they’d seen no recourse but to join.

“There,” Olgierd said quietly. He indicated the spire of red lyrium they’d passed by earlier. “If I had to guess, I’d say we’ve found our Templars.”

Ciri suppressed a shiver at the barely audible whine the lyrium let off. The very air around it felt oppressive, and she skirted it carefully as she led the way up the path, _Gynvael_ unsheathed.

A sickly-looking Templar, reddish veins prominent against his pallid skin, appeared around a boulder up ahead and shouted in alarm.

“To arms!”

Bianca twanged behind Ciri, and a bolt flew through the air, fire and lightning accompanying it. The Templar fell, burned and smoking, as four more ran into view. The cool, dry-water sensation of a barrier fell over Ciri. The Templars stared for the briefest moment, then charged.

Blackwall barreled past her to smash his shield into the first Templar. Hawke followed, whirling her staff and tossing a pair of them skyward. Ciri threw an arcane bolt at the last one, who staggered and howled in pain, and she dashed forward to close the distance.

Her sword clashed against the Templar’s, and she strained for a second as he bore down on her. Then she spun away, skipping out of reach. Olgierd slipped in to take her place. He pressed the Templar back with heavy strikes, slashing and cleaving, parrying his blows almost lazily. Ciri darted around behind the Templar and struck him square across the gorget.

He choked and collapsed, acrid blood collecting in a puddle beneath him. Ciri glanced about to see Blackwall run his opponent through with his sword, a smear of blood across his cheek. The last two Templars lay in a broken pile on the ground, most thoroughly dead.

Ciri knelt beside the Templar she’d killed and flinched back as she extended a hand to close his blank, staring eyes.

“What’s the matter?” Dorian asked.

“He feels like the red lyrium,” she said.

Her stomach twisted, and she got to her feet, backing away carefully. Blighted undead, red lyrium infected Templars. For all its pastoral beauty, Crestwood seemed to be filled with ugliness.

She turned to Varric. “Will the red lyrium spread if we burn their bodies?”

Varric gave the bodies a wary look. “I honestly don’t know. I don’t want to know what breathing in a lungful of red lyrium tainted smoke would do to me.”

 _Fantastic_. “Then we leave them,” Ciri said reluctantly. “Come on. Let’s see what they were doing here.”

The Templars had a small camp at the mouth of the cave, with bedrolls and chests set in a sturdy red tent. They took a few minutes to sift through the meager collection of belongings, their eyes peeled for any sign of correspondence.

“Here we are,” Dorian said. He held up a letter for the rest of them to see. “Orders from General Samson to the men here. If I have this right, Corypheus has his men searching all over Thedas for something in an elven ruin.”

Hawke shook her head. “That’s still so bizarre. ‘General’ Samson, throwing his lot in with a darkspawn magister.”

“Does it say what exactly they’re looking for?” Ciri asked.

“No, it’s very hush-hush,” Dorian said. He folded up the letter and handed it to Ciri.

She tucked it away in her belt pouch and looked toward the cave. “If they were looking for elven ruins, then I’d guess one is in that cave just there. Guarded by the wyvern, no doubt.”

“So what are we waiting for?” Hawke asked.

“I just need to do a little preparation.”

Ciri drew her silver sword from its sheath and pulled the little bottle of draconid oil from her bandolier. Very carefully, she let ten tiny drops fall and roll down the length of the blade, coating the edges, and she corked the bottle again and fished out a polishing cloth to spread it evenly.

“Are you certain?” Olgierd asked her.

She met his eyes and nodded. “I must know.”

“What’s that?” Hawke interrupted. “And why a different sword?”

“One of your oils, right?” Varric said. “The one for dragons and wyverns? I thought the Seeker said your specter oil didn’t work.”

“Then this is an excellent time to test this one,” she told him. “If it fails, I still have a sharp sword, magic, and several companions.”

“Fair point,” he said with a shrug. “It’ll be interesting to see what it does.”

“As for the silver sword, it’s what I’ve used for years for...beasts,” she told Hawke.

Hawke nodded slowly, a skeptical look in her eyes. “If you say so, Inquisitor.”

“Have you any words of advice?” Olgierd asked.

“Avoid their venom.”

“Avoid their poison.” 

She and Hawke spoke in unison. Ciri motioned to Hawke, who took over.

“They don’t fly, they glide, and they can spit poison several yards. There’s an antidote, but I don’t think any of the herbs grow in these parts. They have strong claws and jaws, so stay out of range, and keep moving.”

Varric cast a half-wary, half-curious look at her silver sword. “You seem to be expecting something else.”

“Just…be careful,” Ciri told them.

She led the way into the cave. Its walls glinted with shiny black stone, and luminous blue mushrooms grew plentifully along the damp floor by the thick stalagmites. A faint light shone ahead, and she took several slow, deep breaths to center herself before she stepped out into the clearing.

The wyvern hadn’t noticed them yet, and Ciri took the time to look her fill. Its body was long and muscular, with four legs instead of two. Small, delicate fan-shaped wings protruded off its forelegs. The tail looked like a heavy bludgeon rather than the long, venomous flail she was used to seeing. The jaw was square and blunt, almost armored in appearance. Its scales were deep blue, with faint coppery stripes.

So far, it seemed nothing like the wyverns from back home.

She took a step forward and it swung its heavy head in her direction, nostrils flaring. A deep growl echoed through the clearing. Its muscles rippled and bunched, and it sprang.

They scattered to the sides as it landed in their midst. Dorian cursed and cast a hasty barrier. Ciri whirled and lunged to strike at its side.

A long, thin line of blood appeared on its thick hide, a faint sheen of oil glistening on the edges of the cut. Its eyes widened, and a strange, nearly intelligent gleam appeared in their depths.

It reared up on its hind legs and _roared_.

What followed, Ciri would have trouble describing in the years to follow.

Its muscular neck arched in a sinuous curve, thinning and lengthening. The forelegs grew shorter, thinner, the thick, membranous wings spreading and shifting up the limbs. The heavy tail stretched and lost its heft, a trio of razor-sharp spikes slowly growing from the tip. Spines poked through down its back and tail, black and bristling.

It roared again through a mouthful of sharp teeth, its jaw narrower, its eyes smaller, meaner, blood red.

“Maferath’s _fucking_ _ass_ , Songbird!” Varric yelped.

“Watch the tail!” Ciri called out. “Keep it grounded!”

She darted in to slash at it again, her heart pounding.

The wings smacked out, battering them away and knocking them off their feet. It hissed and snapped at Ciri, pumping its wings furiously. It lifted into the air as they scrambled upright – five feet, ten feet, fifteen –

Hawke swore and swung her staff. The wyvern crashed down to earth with a screech. From a distance, Dorian battered it with a volley of lightning that had it flapping its wings again. Varric shot another bolt that barely made an impact.

Ciri ducked its claws and swung at its foreleg. There was a burst of red and black smoke in the corner of her eye. It reared again and twisted to claw at Olgierd as he struck its hind leg.

“The tail!” Ciri shouted again.

Olgierd vanished on the spot in a burst of black and red smoke, narrowly avoiding both the claws and the flailing tail. Deprived of its target, it turned back to Ciri, death in its red eyes. She breathed and lunged beneath the snapping head, swinging her sword at its long neck.

Curses filled the air. Blackwall. She couldn’t help. Claws came at her from either side, the head looming above. As the talons raked her mail, catching and tearing at the steel loops, she pulled on her magic and disappeared just as its jaws snapped shut.

She reappeared on its back, her hand numb and tingling. The wyvern screeched again in indignation. It bucked and writhed wildly, and she bent her knees, rolling with its movement. She struck at the base of the neck, once, twice, thrice. Its blood spurted over her boots as it fell to the floor of the clearing, its violent twists and turns stilling in death.

Blackwall groaned and got painfully back to his feet. “That damned tail,” he muttered. “Maker’s balls, what the fuck was that?”

Ciri hopped off its back, flexing her hand and grimacing. “That was more dramatic than I expected.”

Hawke stared wide-eyed at the dead wyvern. “Was that thing possessed? Was that a wyvern-abomination?”

“I sensed no demon,” Dorian told her. “This was something else entirely.”

Varric looked uncharacteristically serious. “Ciri. What did you do?”

She stopped short. “I had a theory,” she said. She looked over the carcass of the wyvern and winced. “More of a question, really. I wasn’t expecting to have it answered in so thorough a fashion.”

Varric sighed. “I know I said I’d leave it alone, but this? This shit is just a bridge too far, even for me. Where are you really from that you’d expect something like this to happen?” He glanced around and narrowed his eyes at Dorian. “And why does Sparkler know?”

“I found out enough when we traveled to the future that she couldn’t avoid telling me the rest,” Dorian said. “I kept it a secret, of course. She asked.”

Blackwall straightened as best he could. “You’re not from Markham?” He sounded surprised beneath the pain in his voice.

Hawke took a threatening step forward. “If you’ve involved Varric in something dangerous, Inquisitor, you’d better come clean about it now.”

Olgierd cut in. “This goes no further than this clearing. Am I understood?”

“The advisors already know, don’t they?” Varric asked.

“We told them when we reached Skyhold, before they made me Inquisitor.” Ciri looked around at her companions, at Blackwall, Hawke, and Varric, and added, “Your word. Please.”

“You even have to ask?” Varric said as he passed Blackwall an elfroot potion. “Of course.”

“Aye, I’ll keep my mouth shut,” Blackwall assured her and Olgierd.

Hawke stared at her for a long moment, then nodded. “Fine.”

Ciri hesitated, choosing her words carefully. Cassandra’s skepticism had been difficult to overcome, and this time she couldn’t take anyone back to the Continent for proof. Then it came to her. “Are you familiar with Eluvians? The enchanted mirrors of the Elvhen?”

Blackwall nodded hesitantly. “That elven lass, Mihris, spoke of them.”

Hawke and Varric exchanged a loaded glance.

“Merrill has one,” Hawke said. “She spent years trying to repair it. She said it’s for communication, that the Elvhen would use them to speak to each other over long distances. Why?”

“That’s not quite what they were used for,” Ciri said. “We met a Dalish elf in the Hinterlands who traveled through one. Varric and Blackwall were there to hear the tale. Picture portals that can take a person from Fereldan to the Anderfels in the blink of an eye. That’s what Eluvians were meant for.”

“So you’re from someplace on the other side of an Eluvian?” Varric asked. “Somewhere on the other side of the Amaranthine Ocean?”

“Not quite,” Ciri said again. “Imagine a place like Thedas, a world similar to it, filled with humans, elves, dwarves, and other races. A place where magic is just different enough to be noticeable, with its own nations, cities, and villages, its own religions and monsters. And imagine that a portal connected Thedas to this world.”

Hawke whistled under her breath. “That sounds mad. But I just saw a wyvern turn into a completely different creature right before my eyes simply because you struck it with a silver sword coated in some sort of oil.”

“It turned into one of our wyverns,” Olgierd said. “We had our suspicions about your world when we saw a bestiary. You’ve humans, elves, and dwarves, but no monsters? And your beasts had such familiar names. We thought perhaps Thedas had been affected by the Conjunction as well.”

“And now we know,” Ciri said.

“The Conjunction?” Varric asked. “Wait, no. Forget that. The Seeker must have lost her shit when you told her. What does this mean for the Chantry if there’s stuff outside the Maker’s influence?”

“Cassandra was stubborn, but the conversation went rather well, actually,” Ciri told him. “I think she took comfort in the idea that the Maker extended his reach all the way to another world to summon me here.”

She refrained from rolling her eyes at that.

“This is all over my head,” Blackwall said. “Another world? A Conjunction? Beasts that turn into monsters? Something beyond the Maker’s reach? I’m no one special, Inquisitor. I just do as I’m told. If you say you’re from another world, I’ll believe you, but Maker, that’s hard to wrap my mind around.”

Ciri shot him a grateful look. “You aren’t no one, Blackwall. Our world has an order similar to the Wardens, founded to defend civilization against monsters. They’re called Witchers. My father is one, and my uncles. So am I. You’re a brave man, to do as you do. I’m glad to know you.”

He ducked his head, his cheeks reddening. “That’s kind of you, Inquisitor.”

“Do you have proof?” Hawke asked. “Where is this portal?”

“In the Free Marches,” Ciri said vaguely. “But I can’t take you through.” She held up her marked hand. “This thing ties me to Thedas until I find a way to remove it. The last time I tried, when I took Cassandra back, proved disastrous.”

Varric’s eyes lit up in comprehension. “Your Fade step. You traveled two miles with it once. Do you mean you went all the way back to the Free Marches with Cassandra in tow?”

“I went all the way back to our world,” she corrected him. “It isn’t a Fade step. I can travel between worlds, through time even. When Cassandra and Solas made that assumption, I thought it easier to just let it stand. But it’s far more than that. ‘Elder blood,’ some call it. No end of trouble, I say.”

She looked down at her hand and winced again. The lines seemed slightly brighter, just the tiniest bit wider. She shouldn’t have teleported. She shouldn’t have put herself in a position to need to in the first place. Had she forgotten her lessons facing the windmills at Kaer Morhen so easily?

“Shit,” Varric said quietly. “Solas. The Elvhen.”

Ciri flinched. “He found out in the future when Alexius tried to erase me from time. He asked me to lie to him. He said it would be kinder than knowing.”

“These things have a way of getting out, you know,” Dorian said, finally speaking up. “And the more people you tell, the more likely it is he’ll find out.”

“Believe me, I’m aware.”

Varric moved on, dropping one uncomfortable subject for another. “So, what did Command mean when it called you _Zireael_? And when it said it was your birthright?”

“My name, Cirilla,” Ciri said. “It’s a corruption of _Zireael_ , which is Elder Speech for swallow. The Aen Elle, the elves of Tir ná Lia, called me that. That’s another world,” she added as an aside. “It’s a bit of a long story – that’s where Lara Dorren, my ancestor, is from. As for my birthright –”

She hesitated.

“As for my birthright. I was heir to a kingdom once. But it was conquered by an empire, and my grandparents died. Geralt and Yennefer took me in. They’re my parents now. And Geralt really is a knight, I wasn’t lying about that.”

Varric let out a small, incredulous laugh. “You know how absolutely insane all of this sounds, Songbird? You’re a magical monster-slayer with elven heritage from _another world_ who _lost her kingdom_ and came to save Thedas in its hour of need. I couldn’t write this shit. No one would buy it. Too unbelievable.”

Olgierd shrugged. “It works to our advantage. No one assumes we’re from another world. They just think us a bit strange.”

Varric pointed at him. “You’re the one who makes the least sense. The saber, the magic, the speech patterns, the…everything.” He waved his hand. “If Ciri’s a lost magic princess, who are you?”

“The last of an old noble family,” Olgierd said. “A widower. A self-taught mage, as I said before. I’ve no desire to share the rest.”

“And the scars?” Varric asked, undeterred.

“Souvenirs of a lifetime of ill-advised choices.”

“When you were younger and more foolish than most?” Hawke recalled.

Olgierd gave her a half-smile. “Just so.”

“What about Triss?” Blackwall asked. “She’s no apprentice, I take it.”

“No, she’s an advisor to a king,” Ciri said. “She taught me when I was a child when I first arrived at the Witcher’s keep. I’ve known her half my life.”

Hawke gave the dead wyvern another long look. “Maker, I wish I could tell Merrill and Anders even a crumb of this. Mages from another world! And Merrill would love to know what Eluvians are meant for.”

“You could tell her that much, at least,” Ciri offered. “We learned it from another Dalish elf. Mihris, of Clan Virnehn. Of Clan Lavellan, now.”

“We’ll write to her when we get back to the keep.” Hawke smiled and nodded decisively. “That’s about as much utter weirdness as I can take. Let’s go kill a dragon, Inquisitor. But, ah, how about you leave your silver sword out of it this time.”

“Fair enough,” Ciri said, smiling back.

They’d been incredibly fortunate thus far. No one had turned on them or proven too angry or too skeptical to be reasoned with. She doubted her luck would hold, but for now, she breathed a sigh of relief.

Olgierd extended a hand to the wyvern carcass and set it alight, burning away hide, muscle, and flesh with white-hot flames until only charred black bones remained. “With luck, anyone who stumbles on it will think it was an immature dragon,” he said. “No need to throw the local naturalists into a tizzy.”

“Good thinking,” Dorian said. He dropped a friendly arm over Ciri’s shoulders as they headed back toward the cave. “Now, tell me more about this ‘Conjunction’ you mentioned. What is it, and why did you suspect Thedas was affected by it?”

“That’s another long story,” Ciri warned him.

“For you, my friend, I’ll find the time.”

* * *

Ciri stood on a high cliff’s edge, wind whipping her hair. Below her, as far as the eye could see, curled up peacefully in sleep, monsters slumbered. Arachasae, wyverns, kikimoras, forktails, nekkers, perhaps a hundred different types of monster, all deeply asleep.

The wyvern stirred as she watched, its limbs twitching and nostrils flaring restlessly.

“You must never do that again,” Avallac’h said as he stared out at the monsters with her.

“What was that, exactly?” she asked. “I thought that perhaps it might fall more easily to a silver sword and draconid oil, not _change_.”

“The Conjunction is not unique to your world, _Zireael_ ,” Avallac’h said. “This world belonged to the spirits first, and to the great titans of the earth. When the monsters slipped through, the airier inhabitants took steps. Deep dreams, to calm the raging beast within. They dreamed so deeply, slept so strongly, that Thedas changed their very nature.

“But you have awoken something in the wyverns.” He stared down at her with a severe frown. “Even now echoes of your battle spread throughout the Fade. You see them below. How they stir in their sleep.”

“I didn’t intend to,” Ciri protested.

“Your intentions matter little when you disrupt the balance so thoroughly.”

“Will they go back to sleep if I put my silver sword away?” she asked.

“There is no knowing what the repercussions will be,” he told her. “But that is a start.”

“Your Conjunction didn’t happen all at once like ours did, then?”

“No. First came the monsters, which were lulled to sleep. Later, much later, the humans arrived, tribal and primitive.”

“And the Elvhen?” Ciri asked.

Avallac’h smiled. “They hid their history in the deepest corners of the Fade. Where they came from, how they got here – they have forgotten. On purpose.”

“But you know,” Ciri said.

“I have had thousands of years to wander these memories.” Avallac’h inclined his head in agreement. “I know.”

“Will you tell me?”

“A conversation for another time,” he told her, turning back to the slumbering monsters.

“Fine,” she accepted, less than graciously. She looked out at the monsters again and changed the subject. “We fought a dragon today. Are they anything like the dragons from the Continent? Did I kill a person?”

“Only a pale reflection of one,” Avallac’h said. “The dragons of today are animals, though blessed with a certain predatory cunning. They can’t shapeshift or perform feats of magic. Don’t trouble yourself over its death.”

She nodded reluctantly. Its pained bellows had distressed her as it slowed and limped the longer the grueling fight continued, its wings dragging and its great head shaking in agony. She hadn’t been able to get Geralt’s stories of Borch Three Jackdaws and Saskia out of her mind since.

“I see you activated a few Elvhen relics,” he continued. “Be mindful, _Zireael_. That which strengthens can easily be used to tear down.”

“I’m trying,” she said in exasperation, “but you’ve hardly given me anything to go on.”

“You will succeed,” he said serenely. “You must. Or we are all doomed.”

She blinked, and the stone walls of Caer Bronach met her eyes.

 _Marvelous. No pressure at all_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for your feedback! I like knowing I've entertained you with an update.


	37. Meetings and Picnics

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ciri shares a tiny bit of her past with Solas and Triss and has a War Council meeting that sets some things in motion. Later, she has a picnic dinner in her quarters with Owain.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> beta-read by brightspot149. Thank you!
> 
> Contains brief discussion of Cullen/Evelyn in the second half of the chapter.

Ciri shook out her hand with a wince as Triss turned to place the glowing chrysoprase disc in a strongbox on her workbench.

“You were under strict orders not to teleport,” Triss said as she locked the box. “What you did in Crestwood accelerated the damage by a month or two, at least. What were you thinking?”

“I hadn’t realized how dependent on it I was. How complacent I’ve become.” Ciri contemplated the web of bright green lines across her palm. “Do you remember the windmills at Kaer Morhen? The comb and the pendulum?”

“You were always a mess of bruises,” Triss recalled. “Black and blue all over. But you never stopped training.”

“No, Coën was right; that’s how you let fear set in. You have to get right back to it when you fall. But I mean the windmills specifically.”

“Geralt trained you on those, didn’t he? He had you facing three at once by the end.”

“I was in a position very similar to that when we fought the wyvern in Crestwood,” Ciri told her. “I should have feinted and dodged, then come back for a strike. But teleportation is instinctive now. It’s become a crutch in battle. I need to retrain my instincts.”

“At least you know,” Triss said. “But still, you have to stop. The magic, too. The mark’s advanced too much to risk anything.”

Ciri nodded as the door to the workroom opened and Solas let himself in. He looked between Triss and Ciri and frowned faintly.

“I see I missed the attempt to transfer some of the Anchor’s magic into the disc. Were you successful?”

“Of course,” Triss said. “Though I was just telling Ciri that she should stop using magic completely. Take a look at her hand.”

Solas’ frown deepened as Ciri held out her hand for him to see. “Did you Fade step, _lethallin_?”

“I did once,” she admitted. “I just reacted, I’m afraid.”

“Triss is right,” Solas said. He looked frustrated. “Perhaps you should put a stop to your magic use. I don’t wish to suggest it, but this needs to be halted in its tracks.”

“I’ll miss it, but I agree,” Ciri said. “Very well. Sword and dagger only from now on, until we get this thing off me.”

Solas looked like he wanted to say something, but he refrained, focusing on her hand instead. He probed it gently with the tips of his fingers, calling up a warm light to his hand and sending it into her palm. She waited patiently for him to finish.

“There is less magic within, though it is diminished only slightly,” he said finally. “This treatment of pulling the magic out seems to work. But it feels raw, as though it is attempting to cling to you while it’s being pulled away. We’ll need to balance the sessions well, to give your hand time to recover without allowing it to worsen.”

Triss nodded in agreement. “Whenever you’re in Skyhold, Ciri. And if you’re here longer than a week, two sessions.”

“That sounds like a good plan to me.” She looked to Solas curiously, changing the subject. “When we were in Crestwood, we came across three of those Elvhen artifacts. They were in such strange places – in an abandoned human village, and down in an old dwarven outpost. Why do we keep finding them just anywhere and not in actual Elvhen ruins?”

“You must remember that these artifacts predate human civilization,” Solas said. “Villages and towns sprang up around them, while Elvhen lands crumbled into nothingness, save for a few out of the way places untouched by humans. Some artifacts were left alone, while others, like the one we found in the human fortress in the Hinterlands, were likely claimed as curiosities and taken back to gather dust in their treasuries.”

The distaste in his voice showed what he thought of that.

His explanation made sense. She still had questions, though. “How exactly do they strengthen the Veil? What is it that I’m doing?”

“The magic in the artifacts harmonizes with the Veil in its immediate vicinity,” Solas said. “When you activate one, the Veil becomes more solid, in a sense. Think of the artifacts like knots in a fishing net. The net has been untended for thousands of years, so it’s thin and fraying, and fish are slipping through. Each ‘knot’ you retie strengthens the net as a whole.”

“I think I understand,” Ciri said. “But what if someone wanted to use them to take down the Veil? Could they?”

Solas tilted his head thoughtfully. “In theory. But it would take a great deal of power to do so. Likely even more power than Corypheus commands.”

“We should see to it he never gets that power,” Ciri said. “You said it yourself in the future. The Veil must not come down.”

“So you said,” Solas agreed.

Ciri took a step toward the door. “We should get going. The advisors won’t wait on us forever. Triss, will you run me through the items on the agenda while we walk?”

“Of course.”

“Before you go,” Solas said, and hesitated, conflict in his eyes.

“Yes?” Ciri asked.

“While I still think absorbing the magic is the better path, I understand your reticence. I won’t try to convince you otherwise.” He sighed and added, “And I apologize for my words about your paramour. They were ill-considered.”

Ciri suspected that was as good an apology as she was going to get. But she couldn’t let it simply stand.

“I chose him,” she said softly. “I’ve never been the one to choose before.”

Kayleigh and Mistle, Auberon and Avallac’h, Hotspurn, Emhyr’s machinations, the Lodge’s plots. Her mind shied away from the larger implications surrounding just how Mistle had _chosen_ her – they’d declared their love in the end, before Bonhart had killed her, hadn’t they? But no, she’d never before been able to say, ‘Yes, this is what I want.’

Triss froze, still as a statue beside the workbench.

“I was fourteen the first time my choice was taken from me. Then fifteen, then sixteen. I’ve never chosen a lover.” She swallowed. “It’s never been gentle, or kind. I chose Owain. And he is both of those, kind and gentle. Even if it doesn’t last, I’ll at least know I wanted him.”

Solas came forward and took her unmarked hand in his. “ _Ir abelas, lethallin_ ,” he said. His eyes held a storm of emotion. “It was never my intent to control you or bring you pain. You have a right to your own choices, without a stubborn old man butting in where his opinion isn’t wanted.”

Ciri squeezed his hand gently. “Thank you. Your opinion does matter to me, Solas. Just not in this.”

“I understand.”

She wondered how old Solas could be that he’d describe himself as a stubborn old man. He didn’t look much older than forty. And she didn’t think the people of Thedas had the same sort of unnatural longevity that sorceresses and Witchers of the Continent did. But the elves of her world still looked youthful in their hundreds. Perhaps here in Thedas, even with a human lifespan, the elves aged more gracefully.

“We do need to get going,” she said, taking her hand back. “I’ll see you soon, I’m sure.”

“I look forward to it.”

Triss gathered a stack of official-looking documents from the workbench. She and Ciri left the room together, crossing the grassy courtyard in silence. Ciri was painfully aware of Triss’ eyes on her as they walked.

“Why didn’t you ever say something?” Triss asked eventually.

“I told Geralt and Lady Yennefer,” Ciri said. “It wasn’t anyone’s business. And you were part of it, helping the Lodge dictate my future as Tankred’s mistress. I didn’t choose that, either. Even Keira voted not to let me say goodbye to Geralt.”

“We thought it would be for the best,” Triss said quietly. “Order and stability in the north, with you eventually at the helm of the Lodge. Your wants were a small thing compared to the fate of nations.”

“They always are.”

“You’re happy as a Witcher?”

“It’s my destiny,” she said simply, but Triss looked unconvinced. “Yes, Triss. I’m happy. I have my family and my freedom. I kill the dangerous monsters, occasionally lift curses, and come home for a hot meal and a well-earned rest in a soft bed. It’s not an easy life, but it’s the one I want.”

“It’s what you chose.” Triss echoed her earlier words. “I’ll do my best to make sure you can return to it. If Philippa decides to start meddling in politics again, she won’t have my help.”

“Thank you.” She smiled at her friend and changed the subject. “Quickly, before we get to the War Room. What am I expected to decide today?”

Triss passed her the documents, and Ciri hid a grimace at the thickness of the stack. “We received word back from Wycome…”

* * *

She had almost the full complement of advisors present when she and Triss entered the War Room. All were present but Cassandra. She greeted everyone with a nod and a smile, adding a kind, “Welcome back, Chancellor. You were missed.”

“I’m glad to offer my services,” Chancellor Roderick said with a shallow bow.

“Triss filled me in on the way here,” Ciri said as they all spread out around the table. “The Grand Clerics acted on our suggestion?”

“They did,” Chancellor Roderick confirmed. “Agnesot and her followers have been excommunicated, and messengers were sent out across Thedas to spread the news.”

“Has there been any reaction from them?” she asked.

“Nothing but silence,” Leliana said, “and that’s what worries us. We believe it is the calm before the storm.”

“If I were a betting man – and I am – I’d place money on Agnesot’s next move being overtures to the chevaliers,” Raúl said. “It will fail, of course. Orlais is too closely tied to the Chantry to side with excommunicated blowhards. So we should keep tabs on the mercenary companies that operate near the towns they’ve claimed.”

Ciri looked from him to Chancellor Roderick. “You think they’ll become violent?”

“I think that once de-fanged, this particular serpent will seek to arm itself again,” Chancellor Roderick said. “It’s a muddled metaphor, but the meaning holds.”

“We should likewise be wary of them turning to the red Templars,” Cullen said. “To their view, the Chantry has attacked their faith. _They_ are the righteous ones. They’d see it as only right if they could get the Templars back under their control.”

“But for now, we watch and wait,” Ciri summed up, and Raúl and Chancellor Roderick nodded. “Wonderful. Now, Wycome. Your agent reported back to you that Duke Antoine was behind the attacks on the Dalish clan, Leliana. Do you have anything further?”

“We have little on his motives,” Leliana said. “Jester reports that Wycome is experiencing a strange plague of some sort that only affects humans. She believes the attacks were meant to appease the nobles living in the city who hoped he’d take action. Clan Lavellan was a convenient scapegoat. I could send her in to deal with the problem at the source, but it’s risky.”

“That’s not an option,” Ciri said. “Wycome is already on the brink of violence against the elves in the alienage, and Duke Antoine has attempted to kill Clan Lavellan thanks to this plague. If the duke dies in mysterious circumstances, even if it isn’t traced back to us, we’ll see elven deaths by the hundreds.”

"I could send one of my ambassadors as an envoy," Josephine suggested. "Duke Antoine has proclaimed himself an ally of the Inquisition. A polite conversation may get answers that a sharp blade would not."

“We’ll do that,” Ciri said, “and someone should tell Scout Mahanon and Mihris about this. I don’t like the idea of Clan Lavellan being in such danger without letting them know.”

“I’ll see to it,” Leliana said.

“The rest of the Chargers have returned,” Cullen told her. “They chased the Envy demon halfway across Orlais before they finally finished it off. According to their report, it took on the form of Cassandra, the Iron Bull, and even Lieutenant Aclassi.”

“I’m glad that’s done with,” Ciri said. She gave an inward wince as she brought up the next item. “I saw that Duke Cyril de Montfort requested information and assistance with the wyverns at Chateau Haine. We can send a squad of soldiers his way.”

“Do you know why they’re suddenly so aggressive?” Cullen asked.

“It’s a long story,” Ciri said. She felt like she’d said that a lot recently. “If he asks again, tell him it’s because of Corypheus meddling with the Fade. Who exactly is Duke Cyril?”

“He’s Empress Celene’s second cousin on her mother’s side, and a member of the Council of Heralds,” Josephine said. “If we assist him, he may prove to be a valuable ally in her court.”

“Then we’ll do that. Triss, what did you discover in your research on lyrium addiction?”

“Thanks to Commander Cullen’s assistance, we’ve finally started to make real progress,” Triss said with a nod to Cullen. “It’s very strange, though. For all that it’s a mineral, its properties are more like bacteria. I see evidence of a bacterial-like infection in your blood. The lyrium latches on to the cells like a tick to a deer.”

Her audience, while politely attentive, looked confused by the mention of ‘bacteria’ and ‘cells.’ Ciri understood, though.

“And when the blood circulates, it distributes the lyrium through the body,” she said, following Triss’ logic. “Thus the headaches, and the muscle cramps. But what of the mood swings and irritability?”

“I’d need to see samples from a current user and from one who’s only just quit to compare,” Triss said. “But we have a good starting point. After three years, it’s almost gone from Owain and Raúl's blood, which is why their headaches are infrequent. Evelyn, Clemence, and I are working on a few different potion ideas. The cure will be unpleasant, I’m afraid, but there’s no avoiding it.”

“More unpleasant than quitting outright?” Owain asked. “Because I can think of few things worse.”

“If it works as we intend it to, it will force the lyrium to unbind to your blood cells and act as a purgative while it clears your system,” Triss told him. “You’ll be in for a miserable few days.”

Owain shrugged. “I’ll take that over the alternative.”

“As will I,” Cullen said. “Whatever resources you need, Serah Merigold, the Inquisition will provide.”

Triss nodded to him again in appreciation.

“Moving on,” Owain said. “We have reports from the Western Approach for you. It’s crawling with Venatori – no surprise there. They’ve taken over an old Warden fortress, Griffon Wing Keep. We’ll want to fix that.”

“It will give us another foothold,” Ciri said, glancing at the map. “Though its location seems less than ideal.”

“It’s as inhospitable as the Hissing Wastes,” Owain agreed. “Miserably hot, little water, pockets of Blighted land, and pools of sulfur. The scouts observed hyenas, varghests, quillbacks, and phoenixes in the area. There were a few rifts noted, which they marked on a map for you. And Scout Harding believes she saw a high dragon flying in the distance, but she added in her report that the heat might be getting to her.”

“We’ll be sending the Valo-Kas mercenaries with you when you leave,” Cullen said. “You could use the support in a place like that.”

“But it will have to wait,” Raúl cut in. “King Alistair received your raven, and he’s on his way here to speak to you in person. We estimate he’ll arrive in a week or so.”

“Hawke won’t be pleased,” Ciri said with a frown. “Nor will Blackwall.”

She wondered what could bring the king of Ferelden all the way out to Skyhold. Surely it wasn’t her oblique mention of Corypheus at the end of the letter. She’d intended that as a warning for him to stay safe.

“She may wish to ride ahead to aid Stroud," Leliana suggested. "As for Blackwall, let him go with her if he feels strongly about it. We wouldn't want to keep him from helping his fellow Warden."

There was something to her tone that caught Ciri’s attention, and she looked at Leliana sharply. Did the spymaster have the same suspicions that Olgierd did? Had Leliana figured out what Blackwall’s lie was?

Something had been eating at Blackwall on the ride back to Skyhold. He’d been quieter, withdrawn even. Ciri hoped finding out the truth hadn’t placed too much of a burden on his shoulders. Keeping other people’s secrets could be difficult at times.

Ciri said none of this, however. “I’ll mention it to them.”

“We must also discuss the remains of the high dragon the scouts are having shipped back to Skyhold,” Josephine said. “The skull, the skin, and the bones. A small fête displaying the skull would garner some goodwill with nobles, and Dagna and Harritt could create something of interest for you from the harvested materials.”

“Would I have to attend this party?” Ciri asked.

Josephine laughed. "You wouldn't even need to set foot in the great hall. Your absence may make the story of the dragon-slaying grow even bigger in the third-hand retellings of the tale."

Damned if she did and damned if she didn't, then. "Very well. You can have a party while I'm in the Western Approach. And ask Dorian and Hawke what they'd like done with the dragon's remains. They were instrumental in bringing it down."

“You don’t want it for yourself?” Leliana asked.

She may have been told otherwise, but it still felt like a person to her. “No. Let’s move on, shall we?”

“Dorian’s friend, Magister Tilani, came through with that genealogical information,” Leliana said, accepting her cue. “He was correct in his suspicions. Corypheus used to be a human, a high priest of Dumat, named Sethius Amladaris. We’re sitting on the information for now. We’re uncertain whether it will dishearten or embolden his followers to know he was once a man.”

“It always pays to have information tucked away in your back pocket,” Raúl opined. “Once you set it loose in the world, you lose your advantage.”

“It all depends,” Ciri said. “Do they follow him because they think he’s a god, and above them, or because they think he can elevate them to stand with him? It will make a difference.”

“The Venatori likely already suspect,” Owain said. “It won’t shake their faith. And given that the Templars decided that following a darkspawn was a fine idea in the first place, there’s no knowing how they’d react to finding out his origins.”

Ciri sighed. “Keep it quiet for now. It’s good to know, at least, even if we can’t use the information.”

“There is one other matter,” Leliana said. Her face softened with sympathy. “When we put up the memorial at Haven, we had our soldiers search for your sword. I’m afraid there was no sign of it, Inquisitor. The snows were just too deep.”

“Thank you for looking.” A pang of loss struck her again, and she bade her faithful blade farewell for a final time. “If that’s all?”

“It is,” Chancellor Roderick said. “Will we see you down in the hall for supper?”

“I’m afraid I’ll be stealing her away,” Owain said with a wink at Ciri. “Tomorrow, maybe.”

Ciri smiled, her cheeks warming. “Meeting adjourned, everyone,” she said as Leliana laughed quietly. “If anything comes up, find me.”

They left the War Room in twos and threes. Owain, sporting a mischievous smile, tugged her over to the corner of Josephine’s office, where he picked up a wicker basket and tucked it under his arm.

“Picnic in your quarters?” he suggested. “The grounds are busy, and it’s freezing outside Skyhold.”

She went up on tiptoe to kiss him, feeling a rush of fondness. “I’d love to,” she told him. “Come on.”

* * *

They lounged on the soft blanket spread across the bedroom floor, a bottle of wine and a half-finished bowl of plum compote between them. Owain took a swig from the bottle and passed it to Ciri, chuckling.

“Skellige sounds like a fun place. You know, I’ve never been ice skating. It doesn’t get cold enough in the Free Marches for the ponds to freeze solid enough to hold a person’s weight.”

“Ice skating is wonderful,” Ciri told him. “If you get up enough speed, it almost feels like flying.”

“I bet you’re pure grace on ice,” he said, smiling at her.

She couldn't help boasting a little. "I beat all the boys on Skellige when we were trying to do leaps. Even Hjalmar." She smiled back. "I should teach you how someday."

“I’d like that.”

Ciri drank from the bottle and tipped it at Owain. “But what of you? Tell me something from your childhood.”

He grinned. “We were terrors, we younger three. Grandmother Iori loved to tell us stories about the elves back on the Continent, and of the Emerald Knights here in Thedas. For a solid two weeks, Evelyn, Max, and I pretended to be some strange combination of Aen Seidhe warriors and Emerald Knights. The guards must have found us hilarious, three little human children charging the ‘ _shem_ - _dh’oine_ ’ to stand and fight.”

Ciri laughed in delight. “What did your parents think? And Liam?”

“Liam was a little too old for make-believe, and thought we were horrifically childish,” Owain said. “Our parents found it amusing, but I do remember that they avoided having any guests over while we played at being elven warriors. No doubt it would have scandalized their peers.”

“Mm.” Ciri pushed the compote out of the way and rolled over onto her stomach, her shoulder brushing his chest. “And then the rumors that kept the Trevelyans out of polite society would flare up again, just because three children decided to have fun.”

“I imagine that was their view of it.”

“What do you think your parents will make of all your various entanglements?” she asked.

He hummed quietly, and a strong finger began to draw gentle swirls down her back. "The best way I can describe them is to say they're protective. Almost everything's entailed to Liam, so they want us to do well. It's one of the reasons I joined the Templars, and part of why Maxwell went into academics. But Evelyn and I will need to sort out something else with the Circles and the Order gone. They'll likely want her to marry well, but I don't see her being satisfied with that."

“So Maxwell and Raúl –”

“My parents aren’t immune to snobbery, I’m afraid, however liberal and open-minded they may be in other areas,” he said. “They’ll like Dorian. They like you very much. I don’t know how they’d react to Evelyn’s choice of beau.”

There was a note of mild displeasure in his voice, and she twisted her neck to look up at him sideways. “But she did choose him.”

“That’s what I keep reminding myself,” he said. His gentle drawing didn’t falter. “And I haven’t said anything about it to her, either. I’m not a complete ass.”

“You think your parents would disapprove because he was a Templar?”

“I think they’d disapprove because he’s a Ferelden commoner, and when the Inquisition is over, he won’t have a title or a position anymore,” he said. “He won’t be able to give her the life they want for her. _I_ disapprove because he spent six years as the second in command at the most brutal Circle tower in Thedas, and that sort of past is hard to shed.”

“He is trying.”

“I just hope it’s enough.” He exhaled roughly. “Ah, don’t mind me. You must have some stories. Don’t princesses usually end up in arranged marriages?”

Ciri promptly hid her face. “I ran from one once,” she confessed through her hands. “I wasn’t even ten yet. Prince Kistrin was almost a grown man, and much fatter than his portrait made him out to be. He hated the idea of marrying a little girl – he was in love with a lady and wanted to be a knight. And my nanny had filled my head with tales of Geralt, the Witcher I was destined for. So I ran from the betrothal feast, straight into a forest filled with dryads!”

The finger on her back paused. “You’re joking.”

She shook her head. “I wish I was! And you know who found me there? Geralt. He saved me from a myriapod, a giant centipede. I was such a bratty little child. I threatened to have my grandmother flog him if he didn’t stop teasing me. Which only made him tease me more, of course.”

She looked back up and told him the rest of the story, of Braenn and Eithné, of the beauty of the dryads’ home, of the waters of Brokilon being no match for Destiny. Of the shock on Geralt's face when he finally realized who she was, and her feelings of heartbreak and betrayal when he left her with Mousesack and rode off on his own.

“You had an exciting childhood,” Owain said when she finished. “Summers and winters in Skellige, running away from betrothal parties at nine, tangling with dryads – my life has been sedate by comparison, if you ignore the mage rebellion.”

“And that’s not getting into all that happened after Cintra fell,” Ciri said. “Life before that seems charmed when I look back on it, even with my mother’s loss.”

But she was a stronger person now, made wiser for her experiences.

“You’ve mentioned your grandparents before, and your mother,” Owain said. “Where was your father in all this?”

“He’s the bastard who conquered Cintra,” Ciri said quietly. Bitterly. “He faked his death and went to Nilfgaard to overthrow the Usurper, then started a war of expansion against the northern kingdoms. He used a false name in Cintra. We never knew him for who he really was, not until it was too late.”

“That’s…I don’t know what to say. I’m sorry,” Owain said.

“There’s nothing to say,” she said simply. “But thank you.”

She rolled over again onto her back and smiled up into his concerned blue eyes. “Will you spar with me again? No teleportation, no magic, no Templar abilities. I need to retrain my instincts and stop teleporting when I’m in danger.”

“I’d be happy to,” he said. “But we’d do well to use wooden swords this time. Your new blade is a bit much for a sparring match.”

“It is impressive, isn’t it?” she agreed. _Gynvael_ almost made up for the loss of _Zireael_.

He shifted, and in the blink of an eye he was leaning over her, his arms on either side of her head. "So you need dodging practice?" he asked and swooped down to drop a swift kiss on her lips. "Yes, terrible. Your reflexes are all off."

She laughed, and he did it again. She rose to meet him, feinting left, then kissing him squarely.

“A hit!” she crowed.

“Maybe we both need practice,” he said in amusement. “Let’s see.”

They spent a laughing minute dodging and trading kisses, feinting and landing them, before they settled into kissing in earnest. A pleasant few minutes passed that way. She twined her fingers through the short blond hair at the nape of his neck, her body warm and languid as his hand cradled the back of her head.

With a shiver, she pulled back and pressed her forehead to his. “Who won?”

“A draw.”

“Oh, good.”

She shrieked as he rolled over onto his back, taking her with him as he went. She ended up sprawled across his chest, smiling down at him.

“I’m glad I have you,” she told him softly.

“So am I.” He reached up and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. “I never thought the beautiful, capable woman who beat me so admirably in the ring that first day would want to take a chance on someone here in Thedas.”

“I’m sure it will end in tears,” Ciri said in a terrible understatement. “But you were hard to resist.” She hesitated, then asked, “Beautiful?”

He raised his eyebrows at her, mild disbelief in his eyes. “You’re gorgeous. I’m no bard, but I’m tempted to wax poetic when I see you. Bright emerald eyes, hair that shines like silver, a beautiful face – you’re of a height where I _almost_ don’t have to bend in half to kiss you –”

She laughed at that. “The scar doesn’t bother you then?”

“It’s just a mark on a body,” Owain said. “That’s all scars are. It doesn’t make you ugly or unworthy. It looks like it used to be much worse. Is that the case?”

“It was,” she confirmed. “Avallac’h, an elven sage, gave me an ointment that improved its appearance greatly.”

“Then you survived something terrible,” Owain said. “That’s all it means, Ciri. That you survived.”

She leaned down to kiss him again. “Thank you.”

“For?”

“For being you.”

Whimsically, she recalled Lady Yennefer’s pragmatic advice for choosing her first lover. She still hadn’t seen Owain’s quarters, but she expected that his bed would be clean and tidy. And even if it wasn’t, hers was.

But that was a matter for another time.

She snuggled into his arms and lazily reached for the discarded compote. _This_ , she thought, _is the correct way to have a picnic_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for your feedback! I like knowing that I've entertained you with an update.


	38. Families and Misfortune

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ciri meets with King Alistair and learns of another darkspawn like Corypheus. Two long-separated people are reunited. Josephine confides her troubles in Olgierd. The consequences of the Fallow Mire finally arrive at their doorstep, flinging goats.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> beta-read by brightspot149. Thank you!

Ciri splashed her face with water by the side of the sparring ring, her hair damp with perspiration. Three bouts with Owain had turned her muscles to jelly, and she felt bruises blooming on her side and thigh. He was fast, light on his feet for someone of his height and size, and there’d been moments she’d been tempted to teleport. Sparring with him had been a good idea, but she’d be sore in the saddle tomorrow when they left for the Western Approach.

Owain joined her at the water barrel. “Good bout,” he said, a note of breathlessness in his voice. “Still, I think I’m done.”

"Mm, mm-hm. As am I. Thank you for this." Ciri flinched and laughed as he flicked water at her playfully. "Hey, dodging practice is over."

“Just testing your reflexes – ah.” He straightened and nodded to the approaching scout. “Looks like we’d have to finish this up anyway.”

“Duty calls,” she sighed. “See you at supper?”

“Of course. I’ll put the weapons away; you go on ahead.”

She squeezed his hand in farewell and hopped the railing to intercept the scout. “Scout…”

“Mena,” the scout said. “Your Worship.”

“I take it King Alistair has arrived?”

Scout Mena nodded. “His Majesty is in the rookery with Sister Leliana. They said it’s a private meeting, no need for formality.”

“I should at least clean up,” Ciri said. “Was there anything else?”

“Sister Leliana wanted to let you know an Avvar man was captured an hour ago throwing goats at Skyhold’s walls.” She shrugged at Ciri’s incredulous look. “He’s in the dungeons waiting on your say on what to do with him.”

An Avvar? “Did you get his name?”

“Er – Movran, Your Worship. Chief Movran.”

 _Of course_. Ciri stifled a groan of dismay. “Get him out of the dungeon and stick him in one of the guest rooms to wait,” she told Scout Mena. “I’ll want to speak with him when I’ve finished with the king.”

“Your Worship?”

"We did kill his people and his son," Ciri said, "regardless of his son instigating the conflict. I'd like to resolve this peacefully if it's possible."

Scout Mena bowed shallowly, her fist over her heart. “I’ll see to it.”

Ciri made a quick trip up to her quarters to change into clean clothes. She combed her hair and tied it back from her face, taking a brief glance in the mirror and frowning. She still looked like she’d been out sparring, pink-cheeked and disheveled. But it was as good as it would get.

She made her way back down the stairs and across the hall, sparing a quick hello for Solas in the rotunda as she climbed the stairs again. The library seemed slightly emptier than usual as she passed by. Grand Enchanter Fiona nodded to her distractedly, her eyes darting to the ceiling.

Ciri paused, her foot on the bottom step of the final flight of stairs. “Is something troubling you, Grand Enchanter?”

“No, I…” Fiona trailed off. “Was that King Alistair who passed by?”

Ciri nodded. “He wanted to meet rather urgently. Why do you ask? Did you have something you wished to speak with him about?”

The grand enchanter shook her head. “No, it’s nothing of importance.” Her rich brown eyes turned wistful as she glanced up at the ceiling again. “He looks so like his father. I knew Maric, you know, years and years ago. But that was a different life.”

“How did you meet?” Ciri asked. It must have been a close friendship for her to call the former king by his first name.

“That is a long story, and one you don’t have time to hear,” Fiona said. “King Alistair is waiting for you, Inquisitor.”

"Until later," Ciri said and turned to head up the stairs.

Leliana greeted her as she entered the rookery. “He is on my balcony, Inquisitor. It’s the only place that I could guarantee your conversation would remain private.”

Ciri looked beyond her. A stern-faced guard clad in leather and steel stood in front of the wooden door, and he gave her a polite bow, his hand planted firmly on the hilt of his sword. He stepped aside as she approached, and she walked past him through the door.

“Nice out here, isn’t it?” King Alistair said cheerfully from where he leaned against the wall. “You’d think it would be all snow and icy wind this high up, but your fortress has an interesting enchantment on it.”

Despite his friendliness, Ciri could see the lines of strain around his warm brown eyes. He wore a plain leather jerkin and dark wool trousers, and bits of straw still clung to his sleeve. He’d clearly traveled here in a hurry, and it was equally clear he’d done so anonymously.

Something sparked in her mind, a connection nudging at her. Then the king spoke again, and she pushed the thought aside.

“Thank you for all your information,” he continued. “I sent men to take Bann Franderel and the bandits into custody.” He shook his head in dismay. “I haven’t got the faintest idea what will happen to West Hill now. He’s a widower, his son and daughter-in-law are implicated in this insanity, and his granddaughter is only two.”

“She’ll need a guardian who will advocate for her,” Ciri said. “Someone who won’t covet the Arling or try to manipulate her.”

“If only Elissa were here to figure it out. I’ll ask Fergus and Bann Alfstanna for their recommendations,” he said. He fell silent and looked out over the grounds, a pensive expression on his face.

Ciri imagined he was here for a specific purpose. But while she had him, she thought it worth asking. “We received word yesterday that our agents in Crestwood apprehended Mayor Dedrick. They’re holding him in Caer Bronach until I decide what to do with him, whether to have him sent here for trial or sent on to Denerim to be dealt with by your magistrates.”

“Yes, that business.” King Alistair frowned. “Is slipping him a bit of money and quietly exiling him to start a new life elsewhere out of the question?”

She looked at him curiously. “It’s not, but why? Surely the dead deserve justice.”

“Justice in a Blight is a difficult thing,” King Alistair said. “My mentor, Duncan, would have done exactly as the mayor did without batting an eyelash. Crestwood’s villagers may not forgive it now that it’s come to light, but it was the best choice possible. Even Elissa and I would have done it had we been faced with the same decision. Stop an outbreak of the Blight in its tracks or let the refugees go on to infect the whole village? I feel for the man, and I pity him for having to carry that secret for so long.”

“We found bodies in the lake,” Ciri told him. “In the old village. People who likely didn’t have the Blight, but couldn’t bring themselves to leave loved ones behind. Innocents died.”

“And that’s where Elissa and I would differ from Duncan,” King Alistair said, grimacing. “We’d have had Sten bodily haul them out of the village if we had to. Maker, they’d have hated us, but we’d have saved as many as we could. But I can’t condemn the man for making a decision that saved so many. An outbreak that size would have devastated the Arling. He acted as a Warden would, and I respect that.”

“Then I leave it in your hands, Your Majesty,” Ciri said. “He is your subject, after all.”

The king gave her a small shrug and a nod. “I’d intended to stop by West Hill before returning to Denerim. I can make the time to see the former mayor at Caer Bronach on my way. Speaking of,” he said. “Caer Bronach. You ruffled some feathers in my court, claiming a Ferelden keep.”

“Which is why I wrote to you asking for permission to continue holding it,” she said in exasperation. “I’m not trying to steal land or plant a foreign army on your soil.”

He laughed quietly. “Permission granted, Lady Ciri. Caer Bronach is yours until the Inquisition disbands. You also have rights to the quarry nearby, as I understand you’re looking to rebuild the walls here?”

“Yes, and to construct another building for the mages,” she told him. “Though there’s debate amongst them as to whether it should be a tower or not. Senior Enchanter Letia feels the creation of a tower will only lead to the mages repeating old patterns. First Enchanter Vivienne sees little wrong with the old patterns, of course, and Grand Enchanter Fiona believes that with the Templars removed from the equation, the mages will rise above the habits and troubles of the past regardless of the type of building.”

“I do support the mages’ bid for independence, but I’m glad they’re yours to deal with and not mine any longer,” he said. He gave her a curious look. “Is the grand enchanter well? She looked out of sorts when I passed her on the stairs earlier.”

“I don’t know,” Ciri said. “I expect she’s dealing with a lot.” Though come to think of it, she had seemed preoccupied when Ciri had spoken to her.

"Hm. Well, I'll have to speak with her when we're done. Hopefully, she can point me in Connor's direction. I promised Teagan and Eamon I'd pass on their letters." He smiled. "It will be good to see him again."

Ciri remembered Connor from her unwanted trip into the future. She hadn’t realized he knew the king. “About what brought you here –”

“Yes," King Alistair said. His smile faded. "I must admit the Calling had been keeping me up at night. With Elissa off chasing a cure and no heir in sight yet, I'd begun to fear for Ferelden’s future. The thought that it might be false comes as something of a relief – though now I’m more concerned for you.”

“I sent you that warning so you’d keep your head down and stay safe, not come charging off to Skyhold,” Ciri said, then added hastily, “Your Majesty.”

He raised his eyebrows at her. “No, no. Imaginary little sisters are allowed to get snappish, I expect. I appreciate your concern, but I can take care of myself. And I have information for you that couldn’t be trusted to a letter.”

“About Corypheus?”

“About another just like him.”

Ciri stared at him in dismay. “There are _more_ of these bastards?”

“There were seven in the Chantry tale, but I know of just one other. The Architect.” King Alistair lowered his voice as he spoke the name, as if he feared being overheard. “I wasn’t there for it, but Elissa told me the tale on her return from Amaranthine. A massive darkspawn, well over eight feet tall, that spoke. It was intelligent, inhumanly so. And it could manipulate the Blight, cut darkspawn off from it, make other darkspawn capable of thought and speech.”

“We haven’t seen any sign of darkspawn, intelligent or no, besides Corypheus,” Ciri said, “but Blight manipulation sounds familiar.”

King Alistair nodded. “He claimed to have noble goals, but Elissa didn’t trust a word he said. She killed him, she and the Wardens of Vigil’s Keep. She said it was the most harrowing fight of her life – and we fought the archdemon together, so that’s saying something.”

“The Architect,” Ciri said slowly. “I’ve been reading the Chant – Chancellor Roderick gave me his copy. That name is mentioned. The high priest of the god of beauty. And the Conductor is mentioned as well. That’s Corypheus.”

“I was raised a good Chantry boy,” King Alistair said. “It didn’t stop me from questioning, though. But now?” He shuddered. “These things are supposed to stay stories. I’d say it was beyond us, but Elissa slew one, and the others are nowhere to be seen.”

“Warden Stroud is following up on a lead in the Western Approach,” Ciri told him. “We’ve sent Hawke and Warden Blackwall ahead of us to lend him aid.” She looked down at the grounds, at the people moving below, and added quietly, “It sounds like there’s trouble. Blood magic of some sort. The Venatori are likely involved.”

“If there’s anything I can do to help with the Wardens, you only have to ask,” he said. “But you’ve sent good people after Stroud. I’ve met the Champion, and she struck me as formidable, if a bit intense. And Duncan mentioned Blackwall to me once. He said he was a good Warden. A good man.”

That was a relief to hear. Blackwall’s secret was likely personal, then, and not to do with anything terribly important.

“Speaking of Hawke,” Ciri said. “She told me something that didn’t line up with the events of Varric’s book. In ‘The Tale of the Champion,’ Anders’ explosion killed hundreds. But Hawke said it only killed the dozen in the chantry, and just caused structural damage to Lowtown. Was Varric exaggerating in his novel?”

“For once, Varric Tethras wrote the honest truth,” he said. “Hundreds died when the rubble fell on the lower city, and many more were left homeless. Ferelden saw quite a few returning expatriates after what happened that night.”

“Then why would Hawke say otherwise?”

“People remember events differently when emotions run high.” The king studied the grounds below, adding thoughtfully, “Elissa and I recall Ostagar differently. I would swear Loghain betrayed us, but she thinks he wanted to preserve the troops from dying in a futile battle. Hawke may truly remember it that way. Or it may be how she tells herself it went so she doesn’t have to come to terms with what Anders did.”

That seemed to line up with what Solas had told her once about spirits reflecting different versions of events in the Fade. She wondered if Hawke had always had such a blind spot for Anders, or if it had grown over the years they’d been alone on the run together. It was probably best she didn’t ask.

“There is something you could do for us,” Ciri said, changing the subject. “My advisors convinced me to invoke the Grey Warden treaties in the fight against Corypheus on the basis that he’s a darkspawn and his dragon looks like an archdemon. It’s a flimsy premise, but we needed to shore up support. Would you be willing to back this? Not as a monarch, but as a Warden?”

“I received the message from your people announcing it,” King Alistair said with a small frown. “That had to have been Leliana’s idea. We built an army with those treaties in the Fifth Blight, so she knows their power. Mm. If the situation were even the slightest bit less urgent, I’d say no. But you’ll need all the help you can get. If anyone challenges it, I’ll say I supported it.”

“Thank you.”

"I think that's all of it," he said. "Wait, no. Bann Hargrave wished for her family's personal effects to be sent on to Denerim if you recovered any in the chests you found in her keep. The rest you can have with her gratitude. Personally, I think she just doesn't want to owe the Inquisition a favor for the recovery."

“I’ll see to it,” Ciri said. “Shall we go down to the library? The Grand Enchanter should still be there.”

He agreed with genial ease that seemed to come naturally to him. Ciri could see why he was a popular king.

Leliana and the bodyguard both looked up when they stepped back inside the rookery, and Ciri stepped aside to give the king and her spymaster a moment of privacy. She caught some low murmurs and a bit of laughter, then Leliana called to her quietly.

“When you’re finished, Inquisitor, I’d like a word with you.”

“I’ll be back shortly,” Ciri told her, and she and King Alistair descended the stairs.

Fiona looked up from the book she was distractedly flipping through as they entered the library. For the barest moment, a strange expression crossed her face, there and gone in an instant, and Ciri’s breath caught in her throat as she watched the grand enchanter watch the king.

_Her eyes. His eyes. She knew his father. How did I not see it before?_

“This is probably a very impertinent question,” she said in a whisper. “But you…you don’t know your mother, do you?”

“No, I’m a bastard,” he said, equally quiet. “That’s common knowledge. I was told my mother was one of Eamon’s chambermaids, and that she died in childbirth.”

Ciri strongly doubted that was the case. “A chambermaid? Are you certain?”

“I believe so,” he said, giving her a puzzled look. “I met my half-sister in Denerim during the Blight. We didn’t part on good terms.”

“Your Majesty,” she said quietly. “Is it possible you’re mistaken?”

“I don’t see how,” he said. “What would be the point of lying to me about something like that?”

Ciri beckoned for him to follow her. “Just...bear with me a moment.”

She sincerely hoped she was doing the right thing. She hoped she wasn’t wrong.

Fiona bowed as they approached. “Your Majesty,” she began. “I hope you had a safe journey here.”

“Grand Enchanter,” Ciri interrupted, still keeping her voice low. “You said you knew King Maric when you were younger. How much younger?”

The blood drained from Fiona’s face. “I…That’s not…”

King Alistair let out a sharp, startled noise and stared at Ciri, then at Fiona. “You – _what_?”

Impulsively, Ciri reached for the grand enchanter’s hand. “I love my mother,” she said quietly. “Dearly. But I’d give anything for one more day with my birth mother.”

King Alistair just nodded, his eyes glued to Fiona.

“Not here,” Ciri said. “Your Majesty, the balcony should still be available.”

“Please,” King Alistair said simply, a wealth of questions written across his face.

Fiona sighed and gave him a small, pained smile. “You really do look just like Maric.”

The two of them proceeded up the stairs without her, and Ciri watched until they disappeared from sight. She gave them a minute to get ahead of her, then started up herself to meet Leliana.

“You wanted to see me?” she asked, taking a seat at Leliana’s desk.

“I did.” Leliana toyed with a quill for a moment, then set it aside. “I have been considering the matter of the item of interest at the Trevelyan estate. I’m not comfortable leaving it guarded by their household alone. Something of such power needs to be watched carefully, especially now that you’ve let more people in on your secret.”

The ‘item of interest?’ Ciri blinked at her in confusion, then realized what she was talking about. “Triss still goes there to use the item,” she said carefully.

“And we would not stop her,” Leliana assured her. “But precautions must be taken. I have a handful of agents who can be entrusted with the task.”

“You’ve already decided to do this,” Ciri said, annoyance creeping up on her.

“If you say no, I will of course come up with some other more complicated and less secure solution,” Leliana said with a hint of humor. “I’m not trying to make your life difficult, Inquisitor. I’m trying to find solutions to problems before they become ones.”

“Please stop trying to manage me,” Ciri said. “I appreciate that you’re diligent and efficient. But this should have been brought up in the last meeting.” At Leliana’s nod, she added, “We spoke of this before. You promised to bring things to me as they came up.”

“That’s exactly what I’m doing,” Leliana countered. “It is an idea, that’s all. I haven’t decided anything for you.”

Ciri sighed. “I’m sorry. That’s an unfair accusation.” 

Leliana inclined her head in acceptance of the apology.

She knew a good leader had to delegate, but she couldn’t quite get over her initial first impression of the spymaster. Yet Leliana seemed genuinely upset at Thedas’ mistreatment of elves, and she showed fondness and humor around King Alistair. Perhaps there was more to her than she tended to show in the War Room.

“But regardless,” Ciri continued, “this won’t work. What would you even tell your agents, since you can’t tell them the truth?”

“That it’s a very powerful Elvhen artifact that we’re keeping from Corypheus’ hands,” Leliana said easily.

"And what will they think when they see people coming and going through it?" Ciri stood from the desk. "I'm sorry, but no. You'll have to think of something else or trust that the Trevelyans know what they're doing."

Leliana frowned briefly and turned her attention to the documents on her desk. “Very well. I will consider the matter further. Thank you for your consideration.”

Ciri gave one last glance at the closed balcony door, then turned to head down the stairs a final time.

“Oh, and Inquisitor?”

Ciri glanced back.

Leliana smiled at her, her eyes flitting to the closed balcony door and back to Ciri. “Whatever it is you’ve done for my friend, thank you.”

Ciri smiled back. “It was my pleasure.”

* * *

Olgierd pushed open the door leading to Josephine’s office. He couldn’t help the smile that crossed his face at the sight of her behind her desk, stray tendrils of hair falling over her brow as she read through a document intently. He cleared his throat, and she looked up and smiled faintly.

“It’s good to see you,” she greeted him as she stood. Her eyes were warm and fond, but there was a tightness in their corners that worried him.

He crossed the room to take her hand, brushing a light kiss over her smooth cheek. “Something the matter, dove?” he asked. “The Orlesians aren’t causing more trouble for you, are they?”

“No more than usual,” she said as she gave his hand a light squeeze. “No, it’s…it’s nothing, really.”

“I won’t pry,” he told her. “But I’m here for the sorrows as well as the joys.”

“Our partnership,” she said softly. Her shoulders slumped just the slightest bit. “I don’t wish to be a burden. It’s a family matter.”

“You couldn’t possibly be a burden,” he promised her. He led her over to the settee facing the fireplace and sat with her, her hand clasped in his. “Now, what’s this family matter that’s upset you? Has something happened back home?”

“No, nothing like that.” She fell silent for a moment, then said, “Do you remember what I told you during one of our talks? How the Montilyets have their roots in Val Royeaux?”

“Your family used to do trade there,” he recalled. “It seemed a sore subject.”

“We were exiled a hundred years ago over a feud with another family,” she said. “I thought enough time had passed that I might attempt to re-establish the Montilyets in Orlais again, to establish a new foothold for the family business. But –”

She took a deep, shuddering breath, and he let her hand go to wrap his arm around her shoulders. “Take your time.”

“I just received word that the couriers carrying my paperwork were killed.” Her voice was thick with guilt. “Someone is trying to prevent our return. Maker, I got them killed! I knew I should have investigated further before making any attempts, but I was so hopeful.”

“Put any thought that you’re responsible from your mind,” he told her firmly. “You’ve no control over what a killer hundreds of miles away chooses to do.”

“I know you’re right,” she said. “But I can’t help feeling like I caused this.”

“Give yourself time.” He tightened his hold around her shoulders briefly, and she leaned into him silently, reaching up to lace their fingers together. “What’s so urgent about re-establishing your family in Orlais?”

Josephine tensed beneath his arm. “My family is in debt. A great deal of it, ever since our exile.”

His heart missed a beat. “How badly?”

“We’ve done all we can to keep creditors at bay. My grandparents sold half our lands to stave off interest, and my parents had to sell more.” She pulled away slightly, turning to meet his eyes with a look of mingled anger and despair. “It’s just...so infuriating to see my family reduced to this state.”

“Believe me,” he said with aching empathy. “I understand.”

“Of course you do,” she said quietly. “I cannot let that happen to my family. I’m my parents’ heir, and the next head of our house. If I sell any more of our lands, we’ll be destitute.”

“I can go back to Redania,” he offered. “I may be penniless here in Thedas, but I have my family’s fortune sitting in a bank collecting interest on the Continent. It would be but a brief jaunt with Triss to assist me.”

She pressed her hand to his cheek and managed a small smile. "As always, you are a gentleman. That is kind of you, and too generous. No, I'm afraid I need a long-term solution to this problem.”

“Then tell me what I can do for you,” he said. The thought of Josephine and her family out on the streets as he’d been pained him.

“I thought I’d solved our problems,” she said. “I negotiated a chance to reinstate the Montilyets as landed traders in Orlais. That’s something my family could rebuild with. But –”

“But your couriers were killed,” he said. “That’s damnable luck.”

She shook her head. "Not luck. Sabotage. The documents they were carrying were destroyed, and their valuables were left untouched."

“Who’d have such a grudge against your family?” he asked.

“I asked Leliana to look into it,” she said. “She already had answers, naturally. I’m hardly surprised. She keeps a close eye on all our ventures.”

Olgierd still couldn’t shake the feeling that Leliana would slit his throat in a dark corner of Skyhold to preserve Josephine’s innocence without batting an eyelash. The idea that she kept watch on all their doings didn’t seem strange at all for the spymaster.

“And what did she find?”

“There is a nobleman in Val Royeaux, a Comte Boisvert. He’s made some empty gestures before about being an ally of the Inquisition, but he seems the sort to wait to see which way the wind is blowing first,” Josephine said. “We are, after all, little loved in Orlais.”

“This Comte Boisvert was behind it?”

“No,” she said, “but he claims to know who was. The catch is that he insists on a meeting with the Inquisitor before he’ll share his knowledge. Perhaps to publicly rub shoulders with Ciri, perhaps to make an informed decision about his patronage. But either way…”

“You need Ciri in Val Royeaux, and Stroud needs her in the Western Approach,” he concluded.

Josephine sent him a look of muted anguish. “I cannot ask her to do this for me. Lives depend on her work with Warden Stroud.”

“And if this mysterious killer escalates?” he asked. “This is the second assassination attempt we’ve had in Orlais, and there’s a bard running around sabotaging your efforts with the nobles. What if this is a part of that? We oughtn’t leave this uninvestigated.”

“My needs can’t be placed above the Inquisition,” she argued.

“You are the Inquisition, dove.” He leaned over and placed a kiss on her hair. “Things would fall to pieces here without you. I’ll not let what happened to my family happen to yours. If I have to beg your case to Ciri, I will, but I doubt she’ll hesitate to help. You know well she considers you a friend.”

She sagged against him with a heavy sigh. “As I do her. Very well. I hope it doesn’t cause problems for Stroud.”

“He should be fine,” Olgierd assured her. “Hawke and Blackwall are on their way to aid him, and if our little detour to Val Royeaux adds more than a few weeks to the journey, I’m certain Ciri will send the Vashoth mercenaries ahead as well.”

She laid her head on his shoulder, wisps of hair escaping her braided bun and tickling the underside of his jaw. “I hope so,” she said again. “Olgierd?”

“Yes?”

“Thank you.”

“Joys and sorrows, dove. There’s no need for thanks.”

But as he held her, he couldn’t help his worry.

* * *

Ciri met their one-time prisoner in a small guest room just off the main hall balcony, the door guarded from the outside by an armed Inquisition soldier. Chief Movran looked up as he entered, surprise flitting through his eyes.

“You?” he asked. “I’d imagined the god-marked who killed my good for nothing son and the idiots who followed him to be ten feet tall and breathe fire. You don’t look like much.”

“I expect that’s what your son thought, too,” Ciri said tartly, then, appalled with herself, quickly added, “I mean – you have my condolences on your loss –”

His riotous laughter interrupted her. “Ha! I’m sure he did, god-marked!”

Ciri took a seat in the chair facing the bed he sat heavily on. “I must ask. Why goats?”

He shrugged his broad shoulders, the horns on his hide helm shifting slightly at the movement. “It’s our custom. You and yours caused the deaths of my kin, so I answered their deaths by smacking your hold with goat’s blood.”

“And that’s it?” she asked. “You toss a few goats at our walls –”

“Smacked the hold with their blood,” he interrupted.

“Of course,” Ciri agreed. “But it means what, exactly? That we wronged you? Your son wronged us first. Is it a warning not to cross you? Very well, we’ll not cross you. We’ve larger problems to worry about. Is it some sort of symbol that whatever feud lay between us has been put to rest? Then good, and you can go on your way.”

He laughed again, loud and hearty. “All of these! Good, you understand well. Aye, what lay between my brat and you is in the past. I should have known he’d get feisty with your soldiers instead of chasing Tevinters as he was told.”

“Your shaman said you’d hold him responsible,” Ciri said.

Chief Movran nodded, and the horns on his helm tilted toward her briefly. “I sent Amund with Ingvi and his lot to help keep their heads straight. That they died means he chose not to crack heads and make them see sense. I let him leave after he shared the tale with me, but I’m glad to see the back of him.”

“Then there’s no ill-will on your part?” Ciri asked.

“I should have known, as I said,” Chief Movran said. “A red-haired mother guarantees a brat.”

Ciri couldn’t help laughing a little. “I know plenty of redheads, though I wouldn’t call any of them ‘brats.’”

“Watch them,” he advised her. “You’ll see.” He stood suddenly, ducking his head to avoid scraping the ceiling with his helm’s horns. “Unless you want to toss me back in your dungeons, I should see to my clan. My oldest sent word from the border asking for aid.”

“You still intend to fight Tevinters?”

“Aye,” he said with a slightly bloodthirsty grin. “It’s good sport.”

“I shan’t stop you, then. Good luck in battle, Chief Movran.”

“And to you, god-marked.”

Ciri opened the door to the guest room and motioned to the soldier standing guard. “See to it that Chief Movran is allowed to leave without any trouble. On my orders.”

The soldier saluted her with his fist over his heart. “Yes, Inquisitor.”

Ciri watched them leave together, Chief Movran towering over his escort, and turned to head back into the main hall.

She’d only just set foot in the hall when a voice called out to her.

“Inquisitor? Lady Ciri!”

She turned to see King Alistair striding toward her, his bodyguard on his heels. His eyes were rimmed with red, but he wore a smile.

“Lady Ciri,” he said again as he caught up with her. His voice shook faintly. “ _Thank you_.”

“There’s nothing to thank me for,” she told him.

“Nothing to thank you for?” he echoed. “This is…this is everything.” He shook his head, looking slightly stunned. “Maker, I never imagined. I have so much to think about now.”

“About the grand enchanter?”

No one was near, but still, he dropped his voice as he let out a shaky laugh. "There's an elf-blooded son of an Orlesian mage on Ferelden’s throne. Do you know how many nobles would try to invalidate my rule over this?”

“Can they?”

“No, but they’d certainly make my life difficult if they knew.” He placed a hand on her shoulder and looked intently at her with wet eyes. “You fulfilled a lifelong dream of mine, you know. I don’t really know where to go from here, but I’m grateful.”

“I’m glad for you,” she said sincerely.

“I’m limited in what I can actually do without the consent of the Bannorn, but if the mages ever need anything – if the elves ever need anything – just ask, and I’ll do what I can,” he said.

Ciri nodded.

His smile bloomed, wide and sweet. “False rumor or not, any king would be proud to call you sister.”

With a final pat to her shoulder, he stepped back and gave her a deep, respectful nod. “Inquisitor Morhen.”

She nodded back. “King Alistair.”

He strode past her out the doors, his bodyguard just behind him. Ciri smiled to herself as she turned to leave for her quarters. _Sometimes it doesn’t have to be about killing monsters or men_ , she thought. _Sometimes doing good doesn’t have to come at the point of a sword_.

The door to Josephine’s office opened, and Olgierd stepped into the main hall. Her heart dropped at the grave expression he wore as he caught her gaze.

She started in his direction, her good mood slowly escaping her. She hoped against hope that it wasn’t a serious matter. But she doubted she’d be so lucky.

_Sometimes it doesn’t have to be about killing monsters or men. But oftener than not, it is._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for your feedback! I like knowing I've entertained you with an update.


	39. Comtes and Contracts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A meeting in Val Royeaux proves more interesting -- and dangerous -- than anticipated.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> beta-read by brightspot149. Thank you very much!

Ciri stopped beneath the great golden gates of Val Royeaux and turned to Cassandra and Solas. “We shouldn’t be long,” she told them. “Now would be a good time for you to seek out that merchant the Iron Bull mentioned.”

Cassandra nodded reluctantly. “Very well. But keep Olgierd and Cole close at hand in case things go wrong.”

“It’s just a conversation with a comte,” Ciri said. “I doubt anything will happen.”

“Even so.” Cassandra gave her and Josephine a last worried look. “We’ll meet you in the square when we’re done.”

Solas and Cassandra left for the bazaar without them, and Olgierd extended his arm to Josephine.

“Lead the way,” he said as she tucked her hand into the crook of his elbow.

“The Boisvert mansion isn’t far from here,” Josephine said. “I hope his information proves useful. Thank you again for coming with me, Ciri. I know you have more important matters to attend to.”

“Nonsense,” Ciri said firmly as they set off. “Your life might be in danger. Besides, the Valo-Kas mercenaries will get there ahead of us, and Blackwall and Hawke are already in the Approach. Things should be fine without us for a few weeks.”

“I certainly hope so.”

Voices dropped and eyes glinted behind masks as they passed through the bustling market. The back of Ciri’s neck prickled, and she had to force herself not to let her hand stray to her dagger’s hilt.

“‘Pretty for a mongrel,’” Cole murmured. “‘Pity about the scar.’”

“Have I mentioned that I hate it here?” Ciri said quietly.

Josephine cast her an apologetic glance. “They have shown you their worst sides, haven’t they? It’s a shame. Val Royeaux is one of my favorite cities. The art and culture here are second only to Antiva.”

They walked past a small knot of plainly dressed elves in simple masks, and Cole cocked his head as if listening to their thoughts. The elves nodded to Ciri gravely and continued on their way.

“What was that about?” Ciri asked Cole.

“‘She cares,’” he said. “‘She’ll stop the chevaliers. The empress won’t burn another alienage with one of us in charge.’”

Mihris had spoken of that. Ciri looked past Cole’s ragged hat to Josephine. “How many elves died?”

Josephine’s face was awash with regret. “Over three thousand.”

 _Over three thousand_. The elves were right. Ciri couldn’t let that stand.

Cole’s quiet repetition of onlookers’ thoughts accompanied their journey to the mansion. The tide of public opinion had shifted slightly thanks to Josephine, Vivienne, and Leliana’s efforts. Mixed in with the derisive thoughts of “half-breed” and “mongrel” were thoughts of curiosity and wonder about the Elvhen. A fair number of people had stopped believing that irritating Valmont bastard rumor, though they feared her alliance with the mages. And she was the target of the lion’s share of the blame for the excommunication of Agnesot and her followers.

They had their work cut out for them if they wanted an invitation to Duchess Florianne’s nascent peace talks, that much was clear.

Josephine knocked on the front door of a stately mansion, its exterior walls a pristine white covered in creeping ivy. The door opened after several seconds to reveal a human man dressed in fine silks, his shaved chin and cheeks a light beige beneath the edge of his gold mask.

Josephine seemed taken aback for a moment, then recovered her poise. “Comte Boisvert, I assume.”

 _Strange_ , Ciri thought. An Orlesian noble wouldn’t answer the door himself.

“You assume correctly,” Comte Boisvert said. “Do come in. I dismissed the servants for the day so that our conversation might remain private.”

They followed him inside. Ciri looked about in interest at the cool, well-appointed foyer. It was a study in goldenrod and white, a marble floor and soft white walls with low, delicate furniture made of rich woods.

“Your companion can wait here,” Comte Boisvert said with a nod to Olgierd. “We won’t keep him waiting long.”

“Messere von Everec has our complete trust,” Josephine countered. Her hand tightened on Olgierd’s arm.

“But not mine, and I am the one with the information. Please be reasonable.”

Olgierd patted Josephine’s hand lightly and took a seat on the small cushioned bench against the wall, his hand resting close to the hilt of his sword. “Give a shout if I’m needed.”

“We will,” Ciri told him.

Cole fell into step behind Ciri and Josephine, completely unnoticed by Comte Boisvert. Ciri looked over her shoulder and raised an eyebrow at him questioningly.

“His face isn’t his real face,” Cole whispered.

True, and not very helpful. No one’s face in Orlais was real. Still, she smiled at him in thanks.

Comte Boisvert led them deeper into the mansion, up a flight of stairs, down a hall, and out onto a shaded terrace. He offered them seats by the railing overlooking the city street and poured them each a glass of red wine from a carafe waiting on the table, then sat back with an expectant look. Cole, still entirely invisible to the man, hovered behind him.

Josephine opened the conversation. “Thank you for seeing us, Comte Boisvert.”

“But of course.”

Ciri sipped at her wine as they exchanged pleasantries. It was light and summery, soft and fairly fruity, but not half as good as her father’s.

“The deaths of your couriers must distress you greatly,” Comte Boisvert continued. He paused for a moment, studying Josephine, then said, “Have you heard of the House of Repose?”

Josephine set her wine glass down with a sharp _clink_. “The assassins’ guild?”

The comte pushed an official-looking scroll across the table to Josephine. “I finessed my connections on your behalf to obtain a copy of this contract from their archives. It’s a contract for a life.”

"'A shame,'" Cole said over his shoulder. "'Such an unusual business. Still, a contract is a contract, and our word is our bond.'" He met Ciri's eyes and said urgently, "His face isn't his real face!"

Comte Boisvert ignored him as Josephine reached for the document with reluctance. She looked sidelong at Ciri, trepidation written across her face, and unrolled the scroll. Her eyes scanned the page quickly.

“‘The House of Repose is hereby sworn to eliminate anyone attempting to overturn the Montilyets’ trading exile in Orlais.’” She looked back at Ciri in dismay.

“Who’s behind this?” Ciri demanded.

“The contract was commissioned by a noble family,” Comte Boisvert said calmly as he sipped his wine. “The Du Paraquettes.”

“But that can’t be,” Josephine argued. “The Du Paraquettes died out as a noble line over sixty years ago!”

“Indeed they did, and yet the contract was signed one hundred and nine years ago,” Comte Boisvert told her.

Ciri gripped the stem of the wine glass, wishing it was her dagger or her sword she had her hand on. “Is this even legal? Sending professional assassins after someone based on an extinct family’s commission?”

Were professional assassins even legal? Bards were one thing, but a guild of assassins?

“It’s quite unusual,” Josephine said, “but I don’t doubt its legality. The Du Paraquettes were our rivals. They’re the ones who drove my family from Val Royeaux a century ago. They must have had the contract drawn up as insurance right after that. A hundred-year-old contract that wasn’t invoked until I tried to restore the Montilyets’ trading status.”

“Unpleasant though it may be, a contract is a contract, Lady Montilyet,” Comte Boisvert said. “The House of Repose is merely upholding their end of their obligations.”

“I do understand,” Josephine assured him. “The guild’s reputation would suffer if they ignored the contract.”

“This is completely insane,” Ciri said flatly.

“This is business, Inquisitor,” Comte Boisvert said. “The guilds have standards to uphold.” He seemed unperturbed by the information he’d given Josephine.

Ciri shook her head and looked at Josephine. “How do you want to handle this? Can we buy out the contract?”

“I’m afraid not,” Josephine said. Her brow furrowed in thought. “But the Du Paraquettes still have descendants under the common branch. If we raised them to noble status, they could cancel the contract on my life.”

“That will take time, Lady Montilyet,” Comte Boisvert said, taking a languid sip from his glass. “Time during which the guild will be obliged to pursue you.”

Cole made a small, frustrated sound. “I’m not saying it right! It’s not his face. He borrowed it, took it to tell you. ‘A contract is a contract.’ _Listen_!”

Ciri casually let her hand fall from the glass to her lap, her legs tensing as her fingers brushed the hilt of her dagger.

Josephine glanced at Ciri again, realization dawning in her eyes. “Is that so,” she said as she turned back to the comte. “You’re far more well-informed than you led us to believe. Your letter to Sister Leliana said you’d heard rumors, nothing of substance.”

“A necessary bit of subterfuge,” ‘Comte Boisvert’ said, leaning back in his seat. “The House of Repose deeply regrets that this contract has come into play. It’s an ugly business. Still –”

“‘A contract is a contract,’” Ciri interrupted in bitter disbelief, and Josephine and the false comte both nodded in agreement.

“Indeed,” ‘Comte Boisvert’ said. “This is Orlais. For the guilds, our word is our bond. Even the assassins.”

“What did you do with the real Comte Boisvert?” Ciri asked.

The false comte gave her a chiding look. “The guild does not kill unnecessarily, Inquisitor. We have him safely tucked away while we converse. His offer to Lady Montilyet was genuine. As was his information, somehow. We’ll need to look into how he obtained it, of course. A guild such as ours cannot afford leaks.” He nodded to Josephine. “He provided us a useful opportunity, however. The contract on Lady Montilyet’s life is so unusual, we felt she was due the courtesy of an explanation.”

“It is appreciated, monsieur,” Josephine said politely. Beneath the veneer of her well-crafted manners, she seemed stunned.

“Your proposal to elevate the Du Paraquettes so they might annul the contract is an interesting one,” the assassin said. “I do wish you luck.”

He stood, and Ciri stood as well, barring his path forward.

“Too calm, too confident,” Cole whispered. “Not alone. Three more, watching, waiting, daggers drawn in darkness.”

One assassin in front of her, three hidden. Cole, unseen behind the false comte, Olgierd downstairs. And Josephine, unarmed and exposed, an easy target.

 _Damn it all_.

“Might I pass?” the assassin asked.

“You’ll wait,” Ciri demanded. “You’ll wait until Josephine has returned to Skyhold. I want your word.”

“You have it,” the assassin agreed. “We summoned her here to explain ourselves, not to kill her. She may return safely.”

Ciri stepped slowly out of his way. “Before you leave…”

“Yes?”

“The assassin who attacked me the last time I was here. Was he one of yours?”

“A cat’s paw of a certain bard’s,” the assassin said. “One of her household staff, I believe.”

“Papillon,” Ciri realized. “Do you have any information on them?”

The assassin shook his head. “She is beyond your reach, Inquisitor, and you could not afford our services if you wished to send us after her.” He bowed shallowly. “Farewell.”

He strolled back down the hall, and Ciri and Josephine stared after him in silence.

Josephine finally broke it, twisting her hands together anxiously. “Ciri – Inquisitor, I –”

“We’ll fix this,” Ciri interrupted. “I promise, Josephine. And it’s always Ciri to you.”

“Thank you.”

A thump and a muffled cry came from a wardrobe on the other end of the terrace, and Ciri sighed and turned to Cole.

“That’s probably the real comte. Would you let him out and meet us downstairs?”

“Yes,” Cole said. “Sorry. I didn’t say it right.”

“No. I’m sorry. I’ll try to understand you better next time.”

Cole nodded and smiled, moving off toward the wardrobe, and Ciri carefully escorted Josephine back down to the foyer, every sense on high alert for an attack.

Olgierd stood to greet them, extending a hand to Josephine. He frowned at the expression on her face. “You look like someone’s walked over your grave. Was the news so dire?”

“There are assassins after her,” Ciri said. “You need to get her back to Skyhold at once.”

“But you’ll need Olgierd in the Western Approach,” Josephine protested. “I can make my way back myself.”

Olgierd looked between them as indecision warred across his face. “I swore my sword to you. But I can’t leave Josephine to face this alone.”

“I’m telling you to go,” Ciri said. “Charter a ship that can carry your horses and leave as soon as you can. Cassandra, Solas, Cole, and I will go on without you. Josephine, do whatever you need to raise the Du Paraquettes to nobility. Olgierd, keep her safe."

“Goes without saying, I should expect,” Olgierd said.

Cole came down the stairs alone. “His face was stolen,” he said. “He doesn’t want to be seen. We need to leave.”

Ciri led the way from the mansion and Cole took the rear, Olgierd and Josephine between them. If Josephine’s grip on Olgierd’s arm was tighter than it had been on the way there, no one said a word. The four of them walked back to the bazaar in watchful silence, Ciri’s hand brushing the hilt of her dagger and Olgierd’s resting on his saber.

Solas and Cassandra awaited them in the center of the square by the shining gold cupola beneath the red silk banners. Cassandra had a bulky wooden box tucked beneath her arm and wore a look of disgruntlement that immediately fell from her face as they approached.

“What’s happened?” she demanded.

“The ‘comte’ was a member of the House of Repose,” Ciri said. “There’s a contract on Josephine’s life.”

Olgierd swung around to stare at Ciri. “You failed to mention that part.”

Cassandra scowled. “I knew it was a mistake to separate. We could have put a stop to this.”

“The assassin made Olgierd wait downstairs,” Ciri told her. “He’d have done the same to you and Solas.”

“He was very polite about it all,” Josephine cut in. “He seemed to regret that the contract even existed. It was courteous of them to tell me of the matter.”

Olgierd ran his free hand down his face. “The man walked straight past me out the door. Dove. Please tell me I didn’t let an assassin live to chase you down another day.”

“He gave his word he’d let me return to Skyhold unharmed,” Josephine said, attempting to reassure him.

Olgierd swore softly. “I _did_. And what were you thinking?” he asked as he glared at Ciri. “Letting him live?”

“Cole said there were three others lying in wait,” Ciri said sharply, glaring back. “Josephine was unarmed and completely exposed. There wasn’t any choice.”

If she were still able to teleport, that would be a different matter. But she was limited in how she could respond to threats now, and Josephine’s safety had to come first.

“Olgierd,” Josephine said quietly. “I want no more deaths on my conscience. Not even an assassin’s.”

He sighed, the tension dropping from his shoulders slightly. “My apologies,” he said to Ciri. “I’m certain you did what was best.”

"We'll keep her safe," Ciri told him and was met with a firm nod.

“That we will.”

Solas spoke up, his voice calm and level. “The tide will turn soon, and ships will begin to dock. We should leave the bazaar if we want to see you back to Skyhold today.”

“Agreed,” Cassandra said. She hefted the box with a grimace. “You should take this thing with you. We won’t have any use for it where we’re going.”

“What is it?” Ciri asked as they began to walk toward Val Royeaux’s gates.

“Nuggalope bait,” Cassandra said in distaste. “I hope Iron Bull is satisfied. He failed to mention the expense. That merchant was a nightmare, going on about his ‘ware.’”

Josephine gave the box a curious look. “How much did it cost?”

Cassandra made a sound of disgust. “Ten thousand royals.”

“For _bait_?” Ciri exclaimed. “That’s nonsense!”

“Perhaps not,” Josephine said, though she too appeared startled by the quoted price. “The Iron Bull is not the only Qunari in our employ. We may be able to supply mounts to the Valo-Kas mercenaries as well.”

“I’ve no desire to see a horse ruined by too heavy a rider,” Olgierd added absently, his eyes scanning the crowd for threats.

Ten thousand royals. Was the Iron Bull trying to bankrupt the Inquisition? Ciri could buy a home for that much, feed a family of eight for years. The expense grated on her. But they’d done as she’d asked.

They parted with Olgierd and Josephine at the Morhier estate not far beyond the city walls. The horses were bridled and saddled, and belongings were stowed back in saddlebags. Ciri impulsively hugged Josephine, her throat tight with worry.

“We’ll be back in a month and a half, no later than that. Stay safe.”

“I will, I promise.”

Olgierd surprised her with a one-armed hug around her shoulders as she pulled away from Josephine, and she returned the embrace gladly. “You keep safe as well,” he told her sternly. “Don’t go fighting any more dragons without me.”

“Don’t worry about me,” Ciri said. “I have good people at my back.”

She let go, and he nodded to Cassandra, Solas, and Cole. “That you do.”

“Help Josephine with the Du Paraquettes,” she said. “Whatever she needs.”

“Gladly.”

They mounted up, Olgierd on Ifrit and Josephine on a beautiful flaxen chestnut mare, and they rode off together with a final wave back, the box of nuggalope bait balanced awkwardly on Josephine’s lap. Ciri turned back to the others with a stifled sigh.

“If there’s nothing else, we may as well rest here for the day. Cassandra, you should find a scout and have them send a raven ahead to Skyhold to warn the other advisors.”

“I’ll see to it.”

Cassandra set off down the beech-lined path alone, and Ciri turned toward the manor house.

“All will be well, _lethallin_ ,” Solas assured her.

Ciri summoned up a smile for him. Assassins after Josephine, a bard after her, blood mages after the Wardens, an irreparable schism in the Chantry, and a seemingly impossible quest to keep the Veil from coming down. His words were kindly meant. But she doubted them.

* * *

The waves gently rocked the fat merchant ship that had sold them a berth. Olgierd watched Josephine pace the small cabin from where he reclined on one of the two narrow cots. He flexed his hand in sympathy at the sight of her fingers anxiously twisting together.

“Stop pacing, dove,” he said finally. “Come and sit before you wear those dainty slippers out.”

Josephine stopped in the center of the cabin. “My mind won’t stop running in circles.”

“You’ll not catch it pacing like a trapped lion,” he said. He sat up and held out an arm to her. “Come here.”

She curled under his arm with a soft exhale, tucking her legs beneath her gracefully. “I’m sorry for taking you from Ciri. I know how important her safety is to you.”

“Mm. I’m grateful she made the decision for me. I’d not have had a moment’s peace had I let you travel back alone.”

“I do feel safer knowing you and Leliana will both be there at Skyhold,” she said.

He tightened his arm around her shoulders reflexively. “Nothing will happen to you. I promise you that.”

Her hands began to twist again. “I knew the rivalry between our families was bitter, but I had no idea they’d left a contract with the House of Repose to stand in perpetuity in case we ever tried to return!”

“And you truly don’t blame the assassins?”

“The guild must uphold the contract, or it will damage their reputation with potential clients,” Josephine said. “To them, it’s simply business, if a regrettable one. I don’t even blame the current generation of Du Paraquettes. They’re farmers, as best I know. They likely knew nothing about this.”

Josephine was too forgiving by half, in his opinion. A noble family made a spiteful decision a hundred years ago, and now one of the kindest, loveliest women he’d had the pleasure of knowing was in danger.

She looked up at him, her eyes full of dread. “What if the assassins go after my family? Maker, what if I’ve put them in danger as well?”

“Leliana or Cullen can send people to protect them,” he told her. “But I fear you’re their target, not your family, for whatever relief that brings you. You’re the only Montilyet attempting to restore your family to Val Royeaux.”

“And it’s too late to take it back,” she said softly. “That I’ve tried at all is enough to enact the contract. Changing my mind wouldn’t stop the assassins.”

“Then we press on,” he said. “Your family needs the opportunity. If we act swiftly, we might restore your former rivals before the assassins even get close to you.”

She settled more heavily against him, and he turned his head to press a kiss to her hair. “That assassin was right,” she said. “It will take time to call in the appropriate favors to elevate a common family to nobility.”

“And I’ll be there with you every step of the way.”

She reached up to cup his cheek, smiling faintly. “What did I do to earn such a gallant suitor?”

“Beyond being a brilliant, talented, compassionate woman with a heart of gold and a smile I could drown in?” he asked.

She blushed. “Oh, you.”

“I’ve lost too many people in my life,” he said more seriously. “I’ll not lose you as well.”

Josephine slipped out from beneath his arm and shifted to face him, her bright hazel eyes roving over his face before falling to his mouth. Slowly, carefully, she leaned in, her eyes slipping shut.

Her kiss was tender, her lips warm and soft. Hot pleasure rushed through him at the press of her lips against his, but he wrestled it down, determined to simply bask in the moment. He gently kissed her back, wrapping an arm around her waist as she leaned in, her hands on his shoulders. 

She broke the kiss and pressed her forehead to his. He could see her smile in the corners of his eyes. “I’ll do my best not to get lost.”

“Dearest Josephine,” he said, his heart spilling over with fondness. “You’ll not have a chance to get lost. I’ll follow wherever you lead.”

She leaned back just a bit, her smile turning softer at his words. “I feared our courtship was moving too slowly for you. You are, after all, a worldly man, and you were once married.”

“Not at all, dove,” he assured her. “I treasure the time we’ve spent together, and don’t consider a moment of it wasted. This journey we’ve embarked on together is of as much value as the destination.”

Josephine shifted to settle back against his shoulder. “You’re very dear.”

“You make it easy.”

She stiffened as soft footsteps approached their door, not relaxing until they’d passed and faded into the distance. Olgierd let go of the hilt of his saber, sliding it back under the pillow just in case.

“Tell me about your brother,” Josephine said with a note of determined cheer. “I could use the distraction.”

He smiled a bit at that. “Which brother? The one of my blood? The one we’ve claimed died fighting the Blight? Or the spirit who’s taken his form?”

“The first,” Josephine clarified, “though I am curious about this spirit of Adventure. What was your brother like?”

“He was a fine swordsman and a better horseman,” Olgierd said. “He loved to dance and flirt and fight in equal measure. I’ve never known a man more stout-hearted or loyal.”

“Why do I hear hesitation?” Josephine asked.

“Perceptive as always.” He sighed and settled his arm more securely around her. “I hesitate to speak ill of the dead. For all his faults, I was far worse after his death. And I’m the reason he died. But I’d fear to introduce him to you, let alone to your sister. Vlod was, and I say this with love, a lout. A charming, violent, lecherous, impulsive lout.”

“He sounds exactly like the sort of man my foolish younger sister would moon over,” Josephine said. “But it’s hard to picture a man like that being related to you.”

Sins left unconfessed rested on the tip of his tongue, and he bit them back. “You’re generous in your estimation of my character,” he said instead.

“I didn’t know you when you were cursed, or the years before that,” she said gently. “I’ve only known you as you are now. You’re incredibly charming. You’re a talented warrior, but you aren’t violent for violence’s sake. I’d hesitate to call you impulsive. And the last thing you are is lecherous.”

“Of my many flaws, licentiousness has never been one of them,” he said. “Though ‘impulsive’ and ‘violent’ were words I lived by before.”

“How you’ve changed,” she murmured.

“For the better, one hopes.”

“I’d say so.” She looked at him curiously. “What is the spirit of Adventure like? Is he very much like Vlodimir?”

“Cole described him as being like a portrait I’ve painted of Vlod,” he said. “My brother’s best traits magnified and his worst diminished. Adventure embodies my brother as I wish to remember him.”

“How extraordinary.” She shook her head in faint disbelief. “I don’t know if I’d recognize Yvette without her flaws. Or Antoine, or Laurien, or Tomás.”

“I’m just glad to have him back, even if the Veil does separate us,” he said.

She reached up and squeezed his hand. “I understand.”

He squeezed back, wordlessly grateful. Footsteps passed their door again, hard and heavy this time, and Josephine stiffened in his arms.

“Anything that wishes you harm must come through me first,” he told her. And he was far worse than any assassin.

“Will you sing something?” she asked with a hint of desperation. “I keep hearing that you have a beautiful voice. I’d love to hear one of your land’s songs.”

“For you, dove, anything.” He tilted his head down so his lips were by her ear, and she shivered as his beard brushed her skin. He hummed a little, searching for the key in the absence of his lute, then softly began to sing.

“The night is so moonlit, so starry, so bright,  
There's so much light you could gather needles.  
Come, my love, weary with toil,  
If just for one minute to the grove.

“Don't fear to get your feet wet in the dew.  
I’ll carry you home, my dear, I’ll carry you home.  
I’ll carry you home, my dear, I’ll carry you home.

“Have no fear of the cold, my love,  
It's warm, there's neither wind nor clouds,  
I’ll hold you close to my heart, as hot as flame.  
I’ll hold you close to my heart, as hot as flame.

“The grove is so beautiful, rays scattered across it,  
As if it's dreaming or lost in its thoughts.  
Look! On that thin aspen a leaf trembles playfully.  
The sky is deep, all covered in stars – oh this gods-given beauty!  
The fine dew under the poplars shines like pearls.

“The night is so moonlit, so starry, so bright,  
There's so much light you could gather needles.  
Come, my love, weary with toil,  
If just for one minute to the grove.  
Come, my love, weary with toil,  
If just for one minute to the grove.”

She turned to press a kiss to his cheek, her eyes dark and soft, and laid her head down on his shoulder, her warm, spicy perfume faintly teasing his nose. He folded his arms around her gently and held her as close as he dared. The hilt of his saber pressed reassuringly into his back from its hiding place beneath the pillow.

He was worse than the likes of any assassin, that was true enough. But he was just one man, and mortal. He hid a frown and felt a strange urge to send out a prayer to all the gods he’d stopped believing in decades ago.

_Whatever may come, let her survive this._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for your feedback! I like knowing I've entertained you with an update.


	40. Ultimatums and Vashoth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Olgierd and Josephine return to Skyhold, and Leliana finally airs her problems with Olgierd. In the Western Approach, Ciri joins forces with the Valo-Kas mercenaries to take Griffon Wing Keep and learns what happened in her absence.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> beta-read by brightspot149. Thank you!

Olgierd breathed a sigh of relief as Skyhold’s outer walls closed around them. He and Josephine had been on high alert for the entire trip, tensing at every stray crack and snap of fallen twigs on the ride back from Jader. Brave Josephine endured the hazards of the road with equanimity, not a single complaint falling from her lips despite the cold and the poor rations.

They’d shared a tent for safety. Each night they’d start on their own sides, proper and chaste, but come morning he’d wake to find her in his arms. By mutual agreement, neither spoke of it once they left the tent for the day. It was too soon for such things, though her sweet kisses were a delightful new addition to their courtship.

They left Ifrit and Josephine’s elegant mare at the stables with Dennet and his grooms and gathered their saddlebags, carrying them into Skyhold through the kitchens in the back of the keep.

The head cook beamed when she caught sight of Olgierd. “Messere,” she said, dusting off floury hands on her apron. “Have you any more recipes for us? The tavern patrons eat them dumplings like they’ve been through a famine.”

“Plenty,” he said, “though I’ve not the time just now. I’ll come back later and tell you all I remember of what my parents’ cook used to make us.”

"Fine woman, that cook of yours," she said and stepped aside to let them pass.

Josephine tucked her free hand into the crook of his arm as they walked through the spacious lower chamber beneath the main hall. “I tried those hand dumplings,” she said. “They were quite delicious, though a bit rich for my taste. What else did you eat back in your land?”

“Mm.” Olgierd thought a bit. “Meat stew with pickled and fresh cabbage, boiled cabbage leaves wrapped around a filling of minced pork, chopped onions, and barley, duck’s blood soup with noodles and apples, sweet poppy seed rolls…”

“Well,” she said with a game smile, “some of that sounds a little unusual, certainly, but I’m interested in trying it all. Even the soup.”

He laughed quietly. “I’ll not hold you to it. And I look forward to trying your cuisine as well.”

They proceeded past the vault and up the stairs to the side door into her office, stepping through just as Leliana entered through the main door, a silent scout on her heels. Josephine sat on the settee with a sigh, and the scout came forward to take their bags.

“I’ve dispatched agents to Antiva City to keep watch over your family,” Leliana said at once. “There was no trouble on the journey back to Skyhold?”

“Nothing that wasn’t the product of my own imagination,” Josephine said. “I was perfectly safe in Olgierd’s company.”

Leliana gave Olgierd a dismissive look and turned back to Josephine. “You’ll be safer here among our soldiers and spies. I was taking tea with a few of the mages when Cassandra’s raven came, and Vivienne, Letia, and Fiona have all volunteered to keep you company while I deal with these assassins.”

“Deal with them?” Josephine echoed. “No. Leliana, I intend to elevate the Du Paraquettes. They can annul the contract without bloodshed.”

“It will be far quicker to send one of my people into their archives to destroy the original document,” Leliana argued.

Josephine shook her head, her hands clenched in her lap. “I don’t want you killing for me.”

“But it’s alright if they kill you?” Leliana scoffed. She looked at Olgierd. “You must agree with me.”

With every fiber of his being, to his very core, he did. He’d gladly be the one to burn the document and kill any assassin who tried to stop him. And yet –

“Josephine has made her wishes known,” he said. “I’ll not go against them.”

“ _Thank_ you,” Josephine said. “Besides, Ciri has approved this plan. All I need is for you to buy me time. Once I’ve tracked down the remaining Du Paraquettes, I can get started.”

Leliana produced a small scroll from within her mail-covered habit and held it out to Josephine. “They’re farmers just outside Val Foret. Michault and his wife Perette, and their young son Richart.”

“Thank you for looking into it,” Josephine said. She stood and made to move to her desk. “I’ll need to find a noble who’ll be willing to sponsor them, first –”

“Not so fast,” Leliana said, catching Josephine by the elbow. She motioned to the waiting scout. “Escort Lady Montilyet to her room and arrange for a bath to be brought up. And make sure you stay and guard her door.”

“Yes, Sister Nightingale.”

“Leliana, I have work to do!” Josephine protested.

“You were on a ship for three days, and traveling by horse for a week,” Leliana said firmly. “Go. Wash up, have some food, and rest. Your desk will be here when you’ve finished.”

“Sister Leliana has a point,” Olgierd said when Josephine looked to him for support. “I should do the same, come to think of it. Shall we meet back here in an hour or so?”

Josephine gave a reluctant nod. “Very well. And if you could have your scouts or Cullen’s soldiers do something with the nuggalope bait we left in the stables –”

“I will. And have a bath called for Messere von Everec, as well,” Leliana told the scout, who nodded.

Josephine pressed a kiss to his cheek and followed the scout out the door. Olgierd turned to leave as well, but Leliana called him back quietly.

“I’m surprised you’re playing along with Josephine’s labyrinthine plans,” Leliana murmured, studying him with her sharp eyes. “It would be so much easier to simply eliminate the problem at the source, would it not? I see you agree with me. Of course you do; you are a man of action.”

He met her gaze squarely. “You see clearly. But Josephine deserves better than a man who disregards her choices.”

Leliana cocked her cowled head at him. “Something about that touches a nerve with you.”

“What business is it of yours?”

“Josephine is my business.” Leliana drew closer on silent feet, fierce disapproval wrinkling her brows. “She is a dear friend, and too trusting by half. Men have tried to take advantage of her family’s connections to get ahead in court before, and I’ve been there to help her see through their manipulations.”

“You ran off her suitors?” Somehow, he wasn’t surprised.

“An older man with a string of heartbroken lovers in his wake,” Leliana said. She held up her hand and began to tick them off on her fingers. “A young man with deep gambling debts. An army captain with a violent streak. A penniless social climber. A widower looking for a second wife to tend his family’s estate for him.” She paused and gave him a contemptuous glare. “Somehow you manage to be worse than most of them combined.”

“Older, effectively penniless, a widower,” Olgierd listed, then added, “a mage in Thedas, that’s certain to be a mark against me.”

“You forgot violent.”

“I didn’t,” he said. “I enjoy a good fight, take pleasure in the way my blood stirs in battle. But I don’t raise my sword without cause. Not any longer.”

“So you _were_ such a man,” Leliana said swiftly. “Not that I would have guessed otherwise. No one who led a virtuous life would have scars like yours.”

“Would you like me to argue?” he asked. “I can’t, for it’d be a lie. But Josephine knows of this. I told her all of it.”

Even as he said it, he knew it for a falsehood, and Leliana’s eyes sharpened. “ _All_ of it?”

“Much of it,” he amended. “She stopped me from speaking of the rest.”

“You don’t think she deserves to know everything about you?” Leliana asked with affected innocence. “From the way the two of you behave, I’d have thought you had no secrets.”

His hand strayed to his sleeve where Josephine’s handkerchief lay. “She does,” he said quietly.

“What is it that you’re keeping from her?” Leliana asked. “Why does it matter so much that you do as she wishes?”

_I cursed an Ofieri prince. I killed my father-in-law. I imprisoned my wife in our estate with only demons for company._

_She wanted to leave me and I refused her_.

“Ah.” Leliana stepped back, cold satisfaction in her eyes. “Something to do with your wife.”

“Whatever grievances you have with me, Sister, you’ll leave Iris out of them,” Olgierd warned her.

The sharp look she wore softened slightly. “Understood.”

“I will tell her,” Olgierd said. “You have the right of it. She does deserve to hear the rest.”

“You fear what she’ll think of you?”

“Yes, I fear it,” he told her. “Josephine is a rare blessing. I’d not thought to find love again, not after everything.”

Not after the wreckage he’d left behind him, the ruin he’d made of his life.

“Love?” Leliana asked, a note of surprise in her voice.

“Is that so hard to believe? Josephine is so very easy to love.” He hesitated, his fingers brushing the hidden handkerchief again. “I’ve not told her yet. It’s too soon.”

“You will tell her of your past first,” Leliana ordered him. “If she accepts you…if she accepts you, then I’ll let this go.” She gave him another of her piercing looks. “What will you do if she rejects you?”

“Move on as best I can,” he said steadily. “I’ve no right to deny her choice. But I’ll still be here to protect her from the House of Repose, unless she wishes otherwise. Her wellbeing comes first.”

“In that, I think we are agreed.” Leliana stepped aside, inclining her head in farewell. “I’ve kept you from your bath long enough.”

“Sister.”

He left for his room in a distracted haze of thought, his mind half caught in the past and half fretting about the future. It would be easy to say he couldn’t tell Josephine now for fear of distracting her at such a dangerous time, but he recognized the lie as soon as he thought it.

Josephine looked at him with such warmth and affection. That he might lose her, not to assassins, but to his own damnable acts, frightened and shamed him in equal measure.

Olgierd cursed softly as he entered his room. The wooden bathtub steamed in the small space between the bed and the wall, and he sat heavily on the bed and began to tug his boots off. He unbuckled his sword belt, untied the wide sash, and stripped out of the fine, embroidered silk robe and underrobe Josephine had commissioned for him – dark wine purple with heavy, geometric cerulean embroidery this time. He laid them out carefully on the bed, dropping his trousers and underclothes beside them.

He sank into the hot water and tilted his head back, closing his eyes as the heat began to penetrate stiff muscles and stiffer scar tissue. But as his body slowly began to relax, his mind refused to let go of its worry.

 _I hope Ciri is faring better than I am_.

* * *

Scout Harding greeted Ciri as she rode into the forward camp twelve days out from Val Royeaux. The sun beat down on their heads with unrelenting intensity, reflecting off the endless sand into their eyes. From beneath a short, scrubby tree by a shallow pond, two of the Valo-Kas mercenaries watched their arrival and waved lazily.

“Your Worship,” Scout Harding said as Ciri dismounted from Zephyr’s back. “You missed some excitement a week ago.”

“It couldn’t be avoided,” Ciri said. “Where are Blackwall and Hawke? Where is Stroud?”

Scout Harding grimaced. “We tried to make them rest, but Shokrakar wanted to make a big push for the fort, and they were itching to get back on their feet. You can find them deeper in the Approach, at Griffon Wing Keep. They’re on their way to assault it now.”

“Make them rest?” Cassandra asked. “What happened?”

“From what they said, they interrupted a blood magic ritual out at an old Tevinter tower,” Scout Harding told them. “The one in charge was some big-shot Venatori mage. He was expecting you, Your Worship. He took your absence out on them before he disappeared.”

“So the Venatori have infiltrated the Grey Wardens,” Solas said. “What manner of ritual was it?”

“You’d have to ask Stroud or Hawke for the details, but they said it looked like demon summoning,” Scout Harding said.

Solas frowned. “We should seek them out at the fort, _lethallin_. This does not bode well.”

“We’ll not catch them on foot,” Ciri said.

She looked Zephyr over carefully. Her hardy little mare didn’t seem too tired from the morning’s ride, but she’d meandered off to the pond and was drinking her fill with apparent pleasure, the other horses at her side.

“Is there anything else we should know before we go?” she asked.

Scout Harding straightened and clasped her hands behind her back. “This place is crawling with Venatori. There are a couple of ruins in the area that they seem unusually interested in – that might be worth your time. There are darkspawn coming from beneath the surface somewhere. We’re trying not to engage them, on Stroud’s advice. And there’s a band of raiders in the area that seem to be in the pocket of the Venatori. They’ve caused some trouble for a draconologist out here. Ashaad Two and Kaariss are on raider duty.”

The Vashoth raised their hands again in acknowledgment, and one of them said in a deep, amused voice, “The little professor keeps calling us ‘fellow researchers.’ Funny man.”

“A draconologist? So there is a dragon?” Ciri asked.

“The Abyssal High Dragon,” the other Vashoth told her, his voice a low rumble. “Little man’s damn near giddy over it.”

“Marvelous,” Ciri sighed. “If that’s all?”

At Scout Harding’s nod, Ciri whistled at Zephyr, who perked her ears up and ambled back from the pond.

“That’s my Zeph,” she praised her, stroking her velvety nose. “Up for a little more riding, girl?”

“There’s a rift just past the camp,” Scout Harding warned her. “You may want to deal with that first. We’ve been fending off the demons every few hours, whenever they get bold enough to try their luck.”

“Is there another way around?” Cassandra asked.

“Nothing that won’t add an extra hour to your trip,” the first Vashoth said. He had a small charcoal pencil tucked behind one ear and a light brown undertone to his gray skin. “But we killed all the demons coming out of it half an hour ago. It’s nice and quiet now.”

The second Vashoth grinned, bright blue eyes alight with excitement in a handsome gray face. “One of them was on fire. You have the best enemies, Inquisitor. I’m glad Shokrakar stuck around for this.”

“I’m glad someone is enjoying this,” Ciri said dryly.

She mounted Zephyr again and waited for her companions to do the same. Cole drew close on his piebald gelding, his ragged hat keeping his pale face safe from the merciless sun. His fingers twisted and untwisted in the reins, a strange nervous habit for a spirit.

“Do you think Adventure will help us?” she asked him as they started to ride.

Cole shook his head. “Brother before battle. Adventure is loyal. He follows Olgierd, not us.”

Cassandra looked relieved. “This Adventure is a complication we don’t need. You cannot trust its motivations to remain benign.”

“If Adventure has fixated on Olgierd’s late brother as its identity, you can trust that it will act as its predecessor would,” Solas said. "I'm more concerned with the way such a fixation will change the nature of the spirit. I fear that Olgierd may be unintentionally corrupting it."

“No!” Cole objected. “Desire wanted, wished, wrapped himself in Vlodimir. He played a part in dreams, and in the dreams he felt more, saw more. He changed himself, became Adventure.”

It seemed for a moment that Solas would press the argument, but he let it go. “Whatever the case, Olgierd is an unusual human to attract such devotion from a spirit.”

“Hmph.” Cassandra’s disapproving grunt stopped the conversation from continuing.

Ciri spotted a gleam of emerald around the bend, and she braced herself for the worst. But the rift simply shone and cracked with a rare quiescence, no demons in sight. She raised her marked hand to it and forced a connection, sending a stream of light sparkling through the air. It offered what felt like a token shrug of resistance, then snapped shut.

“If only they were all so easy,” Cassandra commented.

“Let’s hurry,” Ciri said as she shook her hand out. “We may catch them yet.”

She pressed her heels into Zephyr’s sides, nudging her into a swift trot, then a gallop. Canyon walls and cliff edges passed in a blur as she rode, her companions hard behind her. The high-pitched laughing yip of a hyena reached her ears, there and gone in an instant.

A shadow crossed overhead as the canyon gave way to sandy plains, and she heard the distinctive screech of a dragon. In the distance, a massive fort rose before her eyes. She pointed to a cloud of dust just before it.

“That looks like a fight!” she called over the wind.

They arrived at the skirmish just as the last Venatori fell, an arrow through his chest. The archer aimed her bow at Ciri, then relaxed.

“The speed you arrived at, I thought you might be reinforcements,” Herah Adaar said.

“We are,” Ciri said. “Yours. We’re taking the keep?”

“Shokrakar’s idea. She wants to yank these Venatori bastards out by the root.” Herah nodded toward an even taller pale gray Vashoth woman wiping a greataxe clean on a dead Venatori’s armor. “She can fill you in. Shokrakar!”

Ciri looked over the group as Shokrakar made her way over. There was Hawke, paler than usual, with the edges of a bandage peeking out from beneath her cuirass. Stroud seemed to be favoring his left arm. And Blackwall had a livid bruise along the side of his face and neck, and a two-inch-wide strip of his beard had been shaved bare, revealing a strong jawline currently marred with heavy stitches that stretched from his cheek to the top of his neck. She caught Hawke’s eyes, and her heart fell as Varric’s friend looked away with a frown.

“Adaar and Sata-Kas scouted the place,” Shokrakar said without preamble. “We’ve got two possible points of entry. A well in the back, and the front gates. We ruled out the well because my guys are too damn big for it and your people are too hurt for it. Still, good to have the information in case you need to evacuate if _you’re_ ever attacked here.”

She pointed to three of her mercenaries. “Ashaad, Sataa, and Taarlok will breach the gates with me. Adaar and Katoh will pick them off the battlements with archery. The little bird woman and the shiny elf man can help with magic. Once we’re through, we’ll do a full sweep to the top. You want prisoners?”

“If it looks like there’s someone of importance, I want them alive enough to answer questions,” Ciri said.

“Noted. You ready?”

“Where can we leave our horses?”

Shokrakar frowned. “Huh. We’ll clear the ramparts and the first courtyard, and you can bring them in safely. I wouldn’t leave them outside the walls. Quillbacks and varghests will munch on them.”

Ciri reached out and stroked Zephyr’s neck. Nothing was munching on her beloved mare. “We’ll follow at a distance, then. Signal us when it’s safe to bring the horses in.”

The Vashoth mercenaries and the three injured humans took off at a light jog for the fort, and after a minute, Ciri and her companions began to walk their horses slowly in their wake.

“Did you see them?” Cassandra asked Ciri quietly. “Who could have caused such injuries to the Champion? She’s a formidable mage.”

“Believe me, I intend to ask.”

She had to trust that going to Val Royeaux for Josephine instead of coming straight to the Approach was the right decision. The sight of Hawke, Blackwall, and Stroud’s injuries, however, made that decision feel hollow.

Shouting arose ahead of them. Two Vashoth – Herah and Katoh – loosed arrows from compound bows at the Venatori on the battlements, and they fell with shrill, pained cries. The Vashoth and humans clashed with the Venatori in front of the gates while behind them a loud crashing began as Shokrakor started to batter the gates.

Ciri squinted at the skirmish ahead, anxiety setting her pulse racing. Stroud seemed to struggle for a moment before a Vashoth came to his aid. Hawke’s movements were stiffer, but her magic was just as strong. Blackwall bashed a Venatori with his shield and followed through with a slash of his sword, no worse for the gruesome injury to his face. And the Valo-Kas mercenaries were a sight to behold.

The last Venatori collapsed as the gates gave way. The Vashoth poured through the new opening, yelling and brandishing their weapons. Ciri rode slowly after them, and after a few short minutes, Shokrakar stuck her head back out and waved.

“Come on.” She pressed her heels into Zephyr’s sides, and her mare broke into a light trot.

They tied the horses’ reins to the well, and Ciri drew her sword, skirting a Venatori corpse as she walked toward Shokrakar. Her left hand sparked and flared, and she looked around cautiously. There was no sign of a rift or an artifact, so she shook it out, making a note to return to the courtyard to investigate later.

“On your lead,” she told Shokrakar.

Shokrakar rolled her shoulders and gave Ciri a fierce grin. “Keep up, Inquisitor!”

They charged up the stairs, Shokrakar’s mercenaries in the lead. Solas and Hawke threw barriers over their group as arrows rained down from the parapets. Herah and Katoh returned fire as their comrades threw themselves up the ladders with an economy of motion and ease Ciri had to admire. The archers above turned to loose arrows on the charging Vashoth, who dodged and slashed at the projectiles, laughing and shouting. The Venatori archers fell, and Shokrakar chopped her hand forward to the next courtyard.

Ciri could faintly hear a voice shouting commands from the building up ahead at the top of the final flight of stairs. Venatori charged out of the building and into their group, and they crashed together violently. Hawke swept her staff at a mage on the parapet and sent him flying into the air, where a shining green fist smashed him down to the paving stones – Solas’ spell.

Ciri slashed a Venatori across the chest, dodging his blade and darting in for another blow. He collapsed with a choking cry, and she spun to find another enemy. The next few minutes were a blur of ducking, feinting, parrying, and striking. Then motion ceased, and Shokrakar called out.

“Injuries?”

“Need a poultice,” one of the Vashoth said, holding out a big hand to another mercenary, who dug into his satchel and passed him a jar. “Thanks.”

“Birdy?” Shokrakar asked. She squinted at Hawke.

Hawke stiffened. “I’m fine.”

“Your shoulder’s still fucked.”

“I’m _fine_.”

Shokrakar shrugged. “Your business. Inquisitor?”

Ciri tilted her ear toward the building ahead. The strident yelling had grown louder. “Let’s move.”

Up the stairs they went, a wave of horned giants, humans, and one bald elf. At the top, a mage in black hooded robes awaited them, leaning on his staff.

“Here, Inquisitor!” he cried. “I am ready to serve!”

“Shut _up_ ,” Hawke snarled, whipping her staff forward.

The mage ahead batted her spell aside with a grunt and Fade-stepped farther into the upper courtyard. Ciri and Shokrakar charged as Hawke and Solas Fade-stepped past them. She clashed with a warrior, trading blows and dancing back to avoid his strikes before cutting him down. An archer loosed an arrow at her, and she parried instinctively, then skipped forward to deliver a heavy strike to his chest.

Spellfire bloomed and faded at the far end of the courtyard, blinding whites and shining greens clashing with sickly blacks and reds. As the last Venatori fell, Solas called out urgently, “Enough, Hawke! The Inquisitor wants him alive!”

Hawke cursed, and the spellfire faded. “You’d better come quickly, Inquisitor,” Hawke shouted. “He’s not going to last very long.”

Ciri hurried to the other end of the courtyard, the others on her heels. At Solas and Hawke’s feet, the hooded mage lay broken and gasping, blood pooled beneath him. He gave a wheezing laugh as she approached.

“Answers? Y-you want answers, Inquisi-tor? H-ha. I’ll tell y-you noth-ing. I asc-end to great-ness at m-my mas-ter’s side.”

“Your master,” Ciri said. “The darkspawn.”

“H-he is m-more than that,” the mage wheezed. “H-he is a god a-mong m-men.”

“‘The High Priest, Conductor of the Choir of Silence, ruled above all the Dreamers of the Imperium,’” Ciri quoted. “‘Wisest and most powerful of the Magisters Sidereal. In his dreams, he alone heard the voice of Silence.’”

“Y-yes! Yes!” the mage choked, a fervent light in his fading eyes. “H-he has come to take Du-mat’s place as a n-new g-god! H-he will sh-show us the w-way!”

That answered that. The Venatori most assuredly knew of Corypheus’ origins.

“What is the Venatori planning with the Grey Wardens?” Ciri asked.

“P-praise m-my name, In-quisi-tor,” the mage wheezed. “I die a hero’s d-death.”

His mouth went slack, and his chest fell and failed to rise again. Shokrakar shook her head at Hawke.

“Sloppy,” she said simply.

Ciri stepped back and looked around for Stroud and Blackwall. They came forward as she made eye contact, Stroud gingerly flexing his right arm and Blackwall with his jaw set carefully. “What happened at the ritual tower?”

“We couldn’t wait for you any longer,” Stroud said. “There were signs of Wardens gathering and a strong Venatori presence in the area. I took Blackwall and Hawke with me under the assumption that would be enough to deal with whatever we found.”

“It almost wasn’t,” Blackwall said. He spoke with care, making sure he didn’t stretch or irritate the stitches running down his cheek and jaw. “Hawke pulled our fat out of the fire.”

“Not fast enough,” Hawke said bitterly. “The Venatori mage there – Erimond, he called himself – used magic to pull blood out of a pile of Warden corpses as fuel for his spells. He tossed us around pretty thoroughly before I got my feet under me again.”

Stroud nodded. “It’s as we thought. The Wardens are using blood magic to summon and bind demons. From what we gleaned of Erimond’s boasting, they plan to amass an army of the creatures and march through the Deep Roads to slay the Old Gods and stop the Blight forever.”

“That’s exceedingly ill-advised,” Solas said, his brow furrowing in disapproval. “To kill the Old Gods! Have the Wardens always been such short-sighted fools?”

“I can understand the thought behind it, even if I disagree with their choice,” Stroud said. “But the Warden mages we saw were insensible, completely unresponsive to anything we said to them. The ritual Erimond gave them binds their wills to him, and in turn, he enslaves them to Corypheus.”

“Where were you?” Hawke demanded. “You should have been here two weeks ago!”

“Josephine Montilyet is being targeted by assassins,” Ciri told her. “We had to detour to Val Royeaux to begin to deal with the problem.”

Hawke glared for a long moment, then sighed. “One person shouldn’t matter more than all the Orlesian Wardens, but I know I’d put my friends and Anders ahead of them in a heartbeat. I’m not a big enough hypocrite to lecture you on that.”

“Did you kill Erimond?” Ciri asked.

Stroud flexed his weak right arm and grimaced. "No. After Hawke finally got the upper hand, he ran off. She did injure him rather severely though, so that will hamper his ability to travel or perform more ritual magic for the next few weeks unless a spirit healer sees to him. And I don't believe the Orlesian Wardens have any among their ranks. Anders is an anomaly."

Cassandra looked fairly sour at the mention of Anders, but she ignored it to ask, “Where do you believe he went?”

Stroud turned and pointed west.

“Adamant.”

The voice that spoke wasn’t his, but Cole’s, and Ciri looked at the spirit curiously.

“Old hurts,” he continued. “Blood and fear. The stone holds the horror. That’s where the mage rebellion started. A person who wasn’t a person anymore remembered who he was, and the Lord Seeker made him forget again.”

“That makes no sense,” Hawke said. “The mage rebellion started in Kirkwall. I would know; I was there.”

“The spark that lit the flame,” Cole said. “Adamant built the blaze.”

“Then why don’t more people know about it?” Hawke asked.

Cole gave an anxious shrug. “They made me leave. I wasn’t a person either. I didn’t know.”

“You’re a person, Cole,” Ciri said. “Spirit or not.”

Stroud cleared his throat. “The boy is right. There is an old Warden fortress, Adamant, several days in that direction. It will take them time to organize and for Erimond to heal enough to lead them in whatever he’s planning. What do you intend, Inquisitor?”

Ciri looked about at the corpse-strewn courtyard. “We’ll need to put the bodies to rest, first. Then I’ll send a raven to Duke Cyril de Montfort and see if he can intercede with Empress Celene to grant us the use of the keep until we disband the Inquisition. I hear there are ruins with Venatori and darkspawn in the area?”

“One that way, and one that way,” Shokrakar said, pointing over the battlements. “My guys can help you out.”

“I also thought I saw an ocularum on our ride to meet you,” Ciri said.

Herah cursed and dug into her belt pouch. “Almost forgot. We’ve been collecting the shards for you. Here, Inquisitor.”

Ciri accepted the small sack. “Thank you. Then there’s the dragon – but I’d rather not tangle with it if I can help it. Do what you can to assist the professor, but don’t pick a fight with his research subject.”

“Noted,” Shokrakar said.

“Anything else?”

“I sensed an artifact of our people as we entered the first courtyard,” Solas said. “If we could go back and activate it, I’d be grateful.”

“Of course,” Ciri agreed.

She stuffed the sack of shards into her belt pouch and turned toward the corpse at her feet with a sigh. _I hope Olgierd’s having an easier time of it than I am_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for your feedback. I like knowing I've entertained you with an update.


	41. Gossip and Ruins

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Josephine's watchful guard takes on the tone of a tea party. Ciri ventures into the Still Ruins and realizes something awful about the Venatori's forces.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beta-read by brightspot149. Thank you!
> 
> The idea for Hawke's approach to the Still Ruins comes from elfblooded. All credit to her fabulous brain.
> 
> Contains discussion of Cullen/Evelyn about a third of the way into the first half of the chapter.

Olgierd entered Josephine’s office from the stairs below, a plate balanced in one hand. He lingered in the doorway for a moment to watch the women sitting together and speaking intently. If he didn’t know any better, he’d mistake Vivienne, Triss, and Evelyn’s presence for a casual teatime gathering rather than a regular shift to keep watch over Josephine. The ladies all looked casually elegant, lounging on the armchairs and settee in front of the fireplace. The effect was slightly spoiled by the presence of the oversized brown falcon glaring down from the mantel.

He stepped forward, and the women broke off from their conversation and smiled in his direction. He nodded back, extending the plate to Josephine.

“A treat for the hardest-working woman in the Inquisition,” he said, “compliments of the cooks downstairs.”

Josephine’s eyes lit up, and she looked the cookies over carefully. “Is this apricot preserve in the filling? And this must be blackberry.”

“And plum,” he said. “A bit tart, to my taste.”

Josephine selected one of the apricot-filled cookies and took a delicate bite. She smiled widely at Olgierd and finished it off quickly, wiping the sugar from her hands with a silk handkerchief. “Marvelous! Ladies, you must try these.”

Olgierd set the plate down on the small table beside the settee, and Triss, Vivienne, and Evelyn each helped themselves to the jam-filled foldover cookies.

“Very nice,” Vivienne said of the plum cookie. “Your childhood cook was quite the clever woman.”

He carried a blackberry cookie to the mantel above the fireplace and set it beside the large falcon looming there, watching over the office’s occupants with fierce eyes.

“Cookie, Melora?” he asked.

She clacked her beak at him and bent to pick at the offering beside her while he returned to sit by Josephine. In deference to the other women’s presence, he refrained from putting an arm around her shoulders, but she leaned into him ever so slightly. From the small smirk that crossed the First Enchanter’s face, it didn’t go unnoticed.

“The judge didn’t give you any trouble, did he?” he asked.

Josephine had been buried in paperwork and correspondence day and night for the last five days. Twice he’d had to carry her to her room after she’d fallen asleep at her desk. While a part of him feared that she’d run herself into the ground, another part had to sit back and marvel. She was truly in her element, bargaining, trading favors, making connections, forging alliances. Dear Josephine was a breathtakingly competent woman.

Privacy, however, had vanished entirely since their meeting with Leliana. If it wasn’t Vivienne, Triss, and Evelyn keeping watch, it was Letia, Fiona, and Rona. And Melora maintained a constant vigil from the mantel. Stealing a moment of Josephine’s time to tell her the rest of his story had proved impossible thus far, much to his mingled relief and guilt.

“No, Judge Auld’s request was straightforward,” Josephine said. “Cullen has sent him a squad of soldiers to bolster his hunting party in the Frostbacks, and in exchange, he’ll sign the paperwork for us.”

“And how goes Sister Leliana’s hunt for Comtesse Dionne’s lover?”

“Excellent news,” Vivienne said, leaning forward. “Sister Leliana’s agent dropped by half an hour ago to tell us that Enchanter Ellerly was discovered in an inn just over the border in Orlais. He’s being treated for injuries he sustained months ago returning from the Conclave, then he’ll be escorted on to Val Royeaux.”

That took care of two obstacles to her du Paraquette problem. “The comtesse will be relieved, no doubt.”

“And once we have her agreement, all we’ll need is an amenable minister to ratify the documents,” Josephine said.

“Forgive the prying, but if all is going so well, what had you so serious when I came in?” he asked.

With a sidelong glance at Evelyn, Triss slid two pieces of parchment from beneath the plate of cookies and handed them to Olgierd. “Word came back from Wycome, and Commander Cullen and Sister Leliana can’t agree on how to handle it. Since Ciri can’t be reached in time, they’ve left it to Josephine to break the tie.”

Olgierd scanned the letter from Josephine’s ambassador, and then the letter from the Dalish keeper. “These Venatori seem to be everywhere, don’t they? Your Lady Guinevere warns against direct force. Does Sister Leliana have another idea?”

“She suggests having her scouts sneak the Dalish hunters into the city,” Josephine said. “It does sound more promising than a frontal assault on a walled city, doesn’t it? I’ll send word to Leliana.”

Olgierd looked at Evelyn. “Easily solved. Too easily for the mood you all were in. Come now, what’s truly amiss?”

Evelyn sighed and shook her head.

“We’re attempting to explain to Lady Evelyn the difference between a proper romantic compliment and whatever it was that Cullen offered her yesterday," Josephine said.

"He’s just not good with words,” Evelyn said weakly.

“‘I feel safe in your presence,’ or ‘I know when I’m with you nothing can harm me,’” Triss said. “Those would have been perfectly acceptable ways to say what he’d intended to say. Not ‘I don’t think of you as a mage.’”

“Ah.” Olgierd winced. Cullen had made strides, certainly, but that was a spectacularly clay-footed move. “Have you spoken to him?”

“I don’t know what to say!” Evelyn protested. “He thought he was saying something flattering!”

“He fears mages, or he did,” Olgierd said, frowning at Evelyn’s reluctant nod. “How is it you came to be courting to begin with?”

“I pursued him,” she admitted. “He seemed kind – he is kind! And he’s quite handsome.”

“Dear girl, a handsome face is nothing to stake a relationship on,” Vivienne said tartly. “If your paramour isn’t proud of all you are and all that you do, then he isn’t worth the effort.”

“But he is!” Evelyn insisted. “He’s a lovely man, truly. Just...awkward, and a bit fearful.”

“What does he have to say about Kirkwall?” Triss asked, her eyes sharp with interest.

Evelyn bit her lip. “We’ve had some disagreements on why it all went wrong.”

“Tell him you won’t have a fundamental part of who you are denied simply to make him comfortable in your relationship,” Vivienne told her. “Or you can carry on, allowing these little slights and hurts to accumulate unacknowledged, knowing that you should have spoken up and didn’t. It’s your choice, darling.”

“Vivienne is right,” Triss said as Evelyn blinked at her with slightly wet eyes. “Everyone deserves to be valued for who they are by their lovers. If he really cares for you, he’ll apologize and do better next time.”

Evelyn gave her a shaky nod. “I’ll speak to him. You’re right. I do deserve better.”

At Olgierd’s side, he felt Josephine’s soft hand slip into his, and he squeezed it gently, his heart giving a quiet pang. Evelyn wasn’t the only one who deserved better. Josephine deserved the truth from him – more than that, she deserved a better suitor, one younger and less laden with baggage.

She squeezed back, just as gently, and reached for another cookie with her free hand.

“Bastien’s son Laurent wrote to me to say that the grand duchess is pushing for the peace talks to be held during a masquerade ball,” Vivienne said, deftly redirecting the conversation. “I assume the Inquisition will want to be there, of course.”

“We must be there,” Josephine said. “We’ve kept a close watch on Empress Celene with our spies, but Leliana believes Corypheus will want to strike when there’s an opportunity to cause the most chaos and terror. These peace talks will afford him just that opportunity.”

“Should you manage to secure invitations, I’d like to attend,” Vivienne said. “I have friends among the nobility I can gently lean on in person to support the Inquisition. Such matters require a delicate touch, after all.”

“I’m sure Lady Ciri would be delighted to have you in her retinue, Enchanter Vivienne,” Josephine told her.

“Preparations are a ways off, of course, but have you considered the appearance Lady Ciri must cultivate to be taken seriously at such an event?” Vivienne asked. “She’ll be ruthlessly judged. Everything from her footwear to her perfume will be analyzed for hidden messages or the utter lack thereof.”

“We were considering a military uniform,” Josephine said, and she stifled a laugh at the look of sheer disgust that crossed Vivienne’s face. “I know, I know! It was simply an idea.”

“That won’t do at all, Ambassador. I’ll have my tailor come to Skyhold to make Lady Ciri’s gown personally.”

“Perhaps a unifying theme in color for the Inquisition members who come with Ciri?” Triss suggested. “Charcoal and crimson are the Inquisition’s colors.”

“An excellent idea, darling,” Vivienne praised her. “And Lady Ciri, of course, will wear different colors, to show that she stands apart.”

Evelyn piped up curiously. “You mentioned perfume?”

“But of course, dear. It would be unthinkable for our Inquisitor to attend a gathering of the Orlesian nobility without a hand-mixed perfume. It’s a mark of status to afford such a thing.”

She held out a languid wrist to Evelyn, who leaned in to sniff the cuff of her tailored robe. “Oh!”

“Rene de Genellen,” Vivienne said in satisfaction. “By far the best parfumier in Val Royeaux. He could recreate that charming scent you used to wear in Haven, Triss. What was it, peonies and cherries?”

Triss shot her a look of surprise. “Yes, with a light wood base. You remember that?”

“It struck me as quite sophisticated for a runaway apprentice,” Vivienne said.

On the mantel, Melora made a distinctly avian sound of disgust and glared at the door.

“Monsieur de Genellen’s services don’t come cheap,” Josephine said, though from her tone Olgierd thought she agreed with Vivienne.

“Is he the one who made your perfume?” Olgierd asked her.

“Yes, I bought it as part of my wardrobe when I became the Antivan ambassador to Orlais,” she said. “No one else has a perfume like it.”

“I must thank him someday,” he said, squeezing her hand again. “You smell delightful.”

Her cheeks flared red as Triss giggled, but she didn’t pull her hand away. “Oh, you.”

“So is that a yes to hiring his services for Lady Ciri, Ambassador Montilyet?” Vivienne asked with suppressed amusement.

“Ciri will need every advantage,” Josephine agreed. “Very well. When the date is set, I’ll secure his services.” She frowned briefly. “Though if we hire Monsieur de Genellen, we may not be able to create a gown for Ciri. Our most recent expenditure was significant.”

“Not to worry, Ambassador,” Vivienne said. “I’ll cover that expense if I must.”

Smiles faded as the door at the far end of her office opened and a hooded scout entered. He stopped several feet back, holding out a wax-sealed letter.

“Message for you from Nevarra, Ambassador.”

Triss rose to take it, dismissing the scout with a quiet “Thank you.”

The scout left silently, and Triss handed Josephine the letter. With a soft sigh, she pulled her hand from his and broke the seal, unfolding it and reading it swiftly.

“Back to work, I’m afraid,” she said, standing up. “Evelyn, will you find Ser Raúl de Medina and ask him to come here? And if you could stop by the library and ask for Maxwell, too, I’d appreciate it.”

“Trouble?” Olgierd asked.

Josephine gave the letter a look of irritation. “Tevinter and Nevarra were skirmishing with Venatori, and now they’re skirmishing with each other over a contested piece of land on their mutual border. If we don’t quash this soon, it may flare up into a war. We certainly don’t need that.”

Olgierd watched her settle back behind her desk with a stack of parchment and a freshly sharpened quill, her mind already drawn to the task at hand. A breathtakingly competent woman, indeed.

He smiled to himself, swallowed down his guilt, and reached for a cookie.

 _Not today_.

* * *

The artifact had been tucked away in a small alcove in the first courtyard. Ciri walked back to the well, shaking out her hand, as Solas turned his attention to the injured and the mercenaries dealt with the dead.

“Inquisitor.” Shokrakar beckoned to her from where she stood by the splintered remains of the gate.

Ciri wandered over. “Yes?”

Shokrakar gestured out at the shifting sands and forbidding cliffs. “You’ve got darkspawn coming up from somewhere past that mess out there. And that sulfur pit could choke a bronto. Thing is, I’m damn near certain that we’re seeing stragglers from the back end of whatever’s behind the sealed doors farther in the Approach. My people are better at tearing things down than building them up, but we can knock together a path through that for you. Get you a way into whatever those cultists are doing.”

“How long would that take?”

“Three or four days,” Shokrakar said. “There’s another ruin crawling with Venatori you could clear while we’re busy.”

“That sounds like a plan,” Ciri agreed. “Just be careful. Blight sickness isn’t something you can get over with a good night’s rest.”

Shokrakar nodded. “My people heard the lecture from Stroud already. Get their blood in the mouth or eyes, you’re good as dead. No one’s getting Blight sickness on my watch.”

“We’ll take care as well.” Ciri glanced back at the horses. “Can your people hold the keep and do the construction work? We’ll need someplace safe to return to, and the horses need rest and food.”

Shokrakar gestured her back inside the keep a few feet and hauled down on a lever in the wall. A thick iron grate fell from the top of the entrance, coming to rest on the broken wooden planks.

"They'll be safe in here," she said. "There's fresh water not far from here, though we'll need to tangle with a varghest for it. That's our priority. I'll send Sata-Kas and Adaar to camp for food and supplies."

“You’ve thought of everything,” Ciri said.

Shokrakar grinned. “We’re worth every copper, Inquisitor.”

Ciri shook her big, gray hand and smiled back. “I’ll leave you to it. Thank you.”

She retraced her steps back up to the topmost courtyard in search of writing supplies. She thought she’d seen tables along the walls while they’d been fighting. Her eyes lit on a disorganized desk in a shadowed corner of the courtyard after a minute of searching, and she flicked through the papers and the heavily marked map curiously, making note of the correspondence and work orders. There was quite a bit from a Servis and a Lucanus to Legate Macrinus, who’d been overseeing things here at the keep until they arrived.

“Praise his name,” she muttered under her breath, remembering the fanatical light in the man’s eyes as he’d looked up at her in his dying moments.

She’d have to bundle the correspondence for Leliana’s agents to analyze. Servis and Lucanus remained at large for now. That would change if she had anything to say about it.

Ciri was in luck; there were several sheets of clean parchment beneath the correspondence, as well as a quill, ink, and a bag of fine sand. She set to writing her letter to Duke Cyril at once, doing her best to walk the narrow tightrope of “peer,” “social superior,” and “supplicant.” Josephine had said that the Empress’ second cousin would be a good ally to have. If she could get him on her side, that would be a victory all on its own.

She knocked the sand from the finished letter and fished out a stick of bright red sealing wax and her new seal from her belt pouch. With the letter and the correspondence in hand, she strode back down to the first courtyard in search of Solas and Hawke.

She found them by the well with Stroud and Blackwall. Hawke rolled her shoulder carefully, then more freely, nodding at Solas in satisfaction, while Stroud gripped his sword with his right hand and moved carefully through blocks and slashes a few feet away. Blackwall’s stitches were out, leaving behind an angry red scar.

“How did that happen?” Ciri asked, gesturing to his face with the letter.

Blackwall prodded at the new scar gingerly. “A demon had me on my back, and one of the Warden mages got me across the face with their staff blade. Any lower and it would have slit my throat.”

“I’m surprised this Erimond got the better of the three of you,” Ciri said.

Hawke looked over at that. “Not just Erimond. There were four Warden mages and four demons, too. And Erimond used blood magic to amplify his spells. But don’t worry, Inquisitor. We’ll get him next time.”

Ciri nodded and held out the letter and sealing wax. “Can you melt this for me? I’m afraid I’m banned from using magic these days.”

“I’d better not,” Hawke said. “I’d probably set your letter on fire as well. Minor spells aren’t really my specialty. Try Solas.”

Solas obliged with a small smile, and Ciri pressed her seal of a flaming eye superimposed over a sword into the melted wax. She flagged down Herah as the Vashoth was halfway out the gate, another mercenary by her side.

“You’re on your way to the camp?” Ciri asked. At Herah’s nod, she passed her the letter and the stack of Venatori correspondence. “Please give these to Scout Harding to send. The letter is for Duke Cyril de Montfort, and the correspondence should be read by Harding and then sent on to Skyhold to Sister Leliana.”

“We’ll see to it,” Herah said. She took the bundle of papers from her hands and headed out into the desert with the other mercenary.

Cassandra came to her side as she watched their departure. “Do you have a plan?”

“I read some of the Venatori correspondence,” Ciri told her, “and Shokrakar had a suggestion or two. It sounds like a Venatori named Lucanus is overseeing an investigation into the ruins to the southwest of here. From what I read, there was a magical experiment that went wrong centuries ago, and the Venatori are trying to recover the knowledge of how it happened so they can recreate it purposely.”

“That could be worse than what Alexius did,” Cassandra said. “I agree, that should be looked into.”

“And there are no doubt rifts to seal, artifacts to activate, and shards to collect,” Ciri said, suppressing a sigh. “We should get to it.”

“Before we do, I wished to ask you –” Cassandra paused, looking unusually hesitant. “You quoted from the Chant of Light to that Venatori.”

“Macrinus,” Ciri said.

“Was that his name? Yes, to him. I was unaware you were familiar with the Chant. You said you didn’t believe in the Maker.”

“I said I believed he may be as real as any other god,” Ciri corrected her.

Cassandra looked less disapproving at that than Ciri expected. “That is…not as bad as I’d feared, especially coming from someone with such a unique background.”

“Chancellor Roderick gave me his copy of the Chant,” Ciri said. “He and Mother Kordula thought that knowing it might help with the nobles of Orlais, since Agnesot and her people have been slandering me as a blasphemous heathen across the empire.”

Cassandra’s hesitant look returned, and Ciri realized this mattered a great deal to her. “And what do you think of it?”

“The words are beautiful,” she said honestly. “I can see why you enjoy being in the Grand Cathedral to hear it sung. And Andraste – I understand why people worship her. She was an incredible woman to have accomplished all she did.”

“It warms my heart to hear you say that,” Cassandra told her with a proud smile. “Even if you are not Andrastian, it brings me joy to know her words touched you. Perhaps one day, they will write of your deeds, as well.”

“Do you think Varric’s been taking notes for his next book?”

“Maker, I hope not. I hate to think what he’d write me as.” Cassandra broke off as the others approached.

“Where to next?” Hawke asked.

“Somewhere called the Still Ruins,” Ciri told her. “It’s in a canyon to the west and a bit south of here.”

Hawke’s bright blue eyes lit up with interest. “Tevinter?”

“Yes, a magical experiment gone wrong.”

“What are we waiting for, then?” Hawke pulled up on the lever, opening the barred gates again, and set off across the sand.

Ciri fell into step with Solas and Cole, and her tutor turned his gaze from the endless yellow horizon to look at her curiously. “You left your silver sword and oils back at Skyhold on this trip. I’m curious as to what changed for you.”

She held in a flinch at the memory of the wyvern in Crestwood and the way it had changed before her eyes. “I realized it was impractical to bring two swords with me everywhere I went,” she said, “especially as my silver sword is so brittle. It’s safe back in my rooms.”

Solas still looked curious, but he accepted her answer without pressing her further. In the distance, a hulking, reddish-brown creature with long, thin spikes down its back ambled along, two smaller creatures at its tail.

“They need to sleep,” Cole said as they watched them wander off into the desert. “We shouldn’t wake them.”

“We won’t,” Ciri said. She’d learned that lesson all too well.

Spines, a beak, a muscular body – she wondered what monster lay beneath the sleeping form of the quillback. _On second thought, perhaps it’s best left undiscovered_.

She changed the subject swiftly as Solas looked between her and Cole, then out to the quillbacks. “You two probably know the most about spirits out of anyone in the Inquisition.”

“I would assume that Olgierd knows quite a bit as well,” Solas said, gently prying. “He has by all appearances lived an eventful life, and his magic bears the touch of a demon. That’s leaving aside Adventure’s interest in him.”

“He does, and he did,” she said. “More than that is his business. But I was asking you. You’ve studied the Fade for years, haven’t you? And Cole, you’re actually a spirit.”

Cole nodded and smiled, his hat flopping slightly with the movement.

“Why do you ask, _lethallin_?”

Ciri glanced ahead at Hawke and lowered her voice a bit. “I’m curious about abominations like Anders. Varric’s book says he was mostly stable, but that he and Justice slowly corrupted each other over the years.”

“Yes, I read that as well.” Solas looked thoughtful. “Anders must have had extraordinary willpower not to be twisted into a full abomination when they joined, though the corruption was likely inevitable. Spirits are vulnerable to the thoughts and emotions of the people they interact with.”

“Anders didn’t want a fight,” Cole said quietly, his eyes on Hawke’s back. “Running, always running, telling jokes to hide the anger. ‘All I want is a pretty girl, a decent meal, and the right to shoot lightning at fools.’ Justice changed him, too. ‘I am the cause of mages.’ Sometimes when it’s quiet, he’s afraid Elissa wouldn’t recognize him anymore.”

“His thoughts touch Hawke’s?” Ciri asked.

“Always,” Cole said. He frowned. “He misses his cat. Hawke’s dog doesn’t know how to purr.”

“I hadn’t considered that a spirit might corrupt a person in turn,” Solas said. “But spirits of Justice are formidable, and not inclined to compromise in their view of the world.”

“Is there anything we can do for him? If we can get Hawke to trust us enough to bring him to Skyhold, that is,” Ciri said. “Leliana said something back in Haven about the mages of Kinloch Hold undoing a possession without killing the possessed mage.”

“Possibly,” Solas said. “Though if we’re to separate Anders and Justice without harming either of them, they’d both need to agree to it. I have heard of Avvar customs of their mages being voluntarily possessed by spirits, and then relinquishing their ‘teachers’ when it’s time for them to move on. We might consider something like that.”

“It’s a start,” Ciri said. She’d ask Olgierd as well, though she doubted he’d be inclined to help given how he’d distanced himself from his past use of goetia.

Cassandra gave a shout up ahead, and Ciri looked past her to see an emerald green rift crack to life above the sand. She unsheathed _Gynvael_ and hurried to catch up as the tendrils of light began to snake out, all thoughts of Anders, Justice, and abominations firmly pushed to the back of her mind.

Nothing went sailing back into the rift this time. As Cole had predicted, Adventure had followed Olgierd back to Skyhold.

Ciri brought her sword up as a terror demon leaped from the sand, its claws outstretched. She ducked to the left and slashed at its skinny arms, following through with a thrust to its torso. It shrieked, high and pained, as it dissolved around her blade.

She looked around the field of battle for another enemy and found nothing to fight. Hawke gleefully took on two at once, and Cassandra and Solas set themselves against a rage demon. Cole danced with a wraith, his daggers shining like mirrors as he slashed at its insubstantial form. Stroud and Blackwall faced another terror demon together, battering it with shields whenever it attempted to spring from beneath them.

Hawke laughed as she swung her staff almost playfully, her movements graceful as she flowed between the pair of shades. Ciri watched for a moment, then turned to help the two Wardens, darting over to strike at the distracted demon’s skeletal back. It stiffened and screeched, and Blackwall cleaved at it from the front, felling it for good.

With all the demons dead, the rift slowed and pulsed again, and Ciri braced for another wave. The second fight passed just as quickly and easily as the first, however, and she raised her hand to the rift to seal it.

“Any injuries?” Ciri asked as she shook out her hand.

Cassandra glanced around. “None. We should consider traveling with a larger party going forward, Lady Ciri. The battles against the demons were much more manageable this time.”

Solas beckoned to Ciri, and she held out her hand for him to examine. “No changes,” he said. “Good. It seems restricting your use of magic has been of use after all.”

“I agree,” she told him. “We’ll consider it, Cassandra.”

They walked on, turning west toward the canyon. Faint animal tracks dotted the sand, and she heard distant yips and howls of hyenas, but nothing interrupted their journey.

“There,” Blackwall said quietly, pointing ahead to short, scrubby trees behind makeshift barricades. “Do you hear that?”

Ciri strained to listen. Low voices came to her on the wind, speaking in an unfamiliar tongue. “Prepare yourselves,” she said quietly.

They crept closer, hands on their weapons. As they drew near, Solas threw a barrier over their group, and Hawke edged ahead, her staff held at the ready.

A hooded figure walked out from behind one of the barricades and stopped short, shouting in alarm. Hawke swung her staff forward with a whoop, sending the mage flying skyward as four helmeted, bare-chested men came racing out.

Ciri leaped to attack, striking at one man’s free arm while he attempted to smash her back with his heavy shield. She feinted to the side, dodging a blow from a mace, and darted back in to slash at his unprotected stomach. From behind her, lightning arced out to strike the metal shield. He went rigid, letting out a strangled gasp. The wound in his side congealed, its edges coated with ice. She pressed the advantage as his arms trembled from Solas’ barrage of lightning. One more strike, and he fell at her feet.

The hooded mage was no match for Hawke, and she battered him around gleefully as the rest of them finished their fights.

“Enough, Hawke,” Stroud finally called out.

Hawke sighed and snapped her staff out a final time, smashing the mage into the sand with a muffled thud. “Very well.”

The mage gave a choked gurgle and went still. Ciri shook her head and turned her attention to the man she’d felled. His scant armor caught her eye and she faltered. What she’d mistaken for a spiked gorget was a collar, padlocked in place. Her stomach lurched.

“They’re slaves.”

Her voice was thin, unsteady.

“The Tevinter Empire is built on the backs of slaves,” Solas said. “It was inevitable that we’d come across enslaved warriors in the Venatori’s ranks.”

“We’ve been killing _slaves_ ,” Ciri said. Suddenly Hawke’s battering of the Venatori mage seemed all too tame. “ _Damn_ these monsters.”

“We’ll kill the mages first,” Hawke suggested. She sounded like she understood Ciri’s dilemma. “If they speak even a word of Common, we’ll try to get them to stand down. And Fenris taught me a few words in Tevene that I can try – mostly curses, but I can do my best. Alright, Inquisitor?”

Ciri nodded firmly. “Alright.”

By unspoken agreement, the fallen warriors were given separate rites from the dead mage. Cole picked the locks on their collars, granting them freedom in death they’d been denied in life. Ciri stared into the hot flames as their bodies were consumed and vowed to be less blind going forward.

“Come on,” she said as the flames died to a low smolder. “If we can believe their correspondence, the leader of their expedition is inside the ruins.”

She headed past the small grove of hardwood trees to the silent building. Its tall, thin towers rose proudly above the canyon walls. Cassandra snorted as she looked up at a spire.

“You can always trust Tevinter to blur the line between ‘impressive’ and ‘garish.’”

“There’s a joke about Tevinter manhood waiting to be made by someone,” Hawke said, pushing open the door. “Any takers? No? Pity.”

The interior was cool and dark, and Ciri blinked as her eyes adjusted to the dim light within. Behind her, Blackwall cursed. She stopped short, staring at the sight before her.

“You know,” she said, “somehow ‘magical experiment gone wrong’ failed to adequately capture this.”

Tevinter mages, frozen mid-gesture, stood battling immobile demons. Even more demons, some falling, others leaping, pinned in time like butterflies to a board. And in the center of the room, a silent, stationary rift.

“We should see how far the effect spreads,” Solas suggested. He peered down at the room below them, his brow wrinkling. “I see an artifact of our people there, but I cannot sense it. _Lethallin,_ is your hand reacting to it at all?”

Ciri held up her marked hand in response. “No, not at all.”

“Perhaps the time magic affecting this place has pulled the artifact under its influence as well,” Solas mused.

Hawke leaped from the short balcony and wandered up to one of the mages. She gave them a tentative poke in the face, tugging at their hood this way and that, then looked back up at Ciri. “We do plan on undoing this magic, don’t we?”

“Better to undo it than let the Venatori figure it out,” Ciri said.

Hawke nodded, flipped her staff over, and with a quick jerk, slashed the frozen mage’s throat with the staff blade. No blood poured from the gaping wound that opened, but to Ciri's eyes, it looked like a mortal injury.

Blackwall winced and touched his fresh scar where it met his throat. “Maker’s balls, Hawke. What was that for?”

“Do _you_ want to be surrounded by angry, hostile Tevinter mages and out of control demons once this spell is ended?” Hawke asked.

“A fair point,” Stroud said as he joined her down below. He unsheathed his sword and ran it through the terror demon facing the mage Hawke had killed.

“They’re quiet,” Cole said as he drew his daggers. “Frozen, unfeeling, thoughts stilled. It doesn’t hurt. Not yet.”

Ciri nodded in understanding. She and the others spread out through the room, methodically dispatching the still bodies of the mages and demons with a thrust to the chest or a slice across the throat. When no more demons could be found, they moved on toward the back, where a pair of metal doors were half-hidden behind a pillar.

She opened them carefully, hearing the faint sounds of Tevene being spoken ahead, and she beckoned to her companions to follow her quietly. She slipped through the door and went down the corridor on soft feet, peering cautiously out into the open courtyard.

One Venatori mage stood apart from the others, barking orders, while two other mages pored over books and manuscripts at a table beneath a tree. Two bare-chested warriors – slaves – ferried more papers to them. Another two slaves battered at a sealed door at the far end of the courtyard.

Ciri looked to Hawke and made a slow, swirling gesture, hoping she’d understand. Hawke’s eyes narrowed, and she nodded sharply. Stealthily, Hawke inched her staff out in front of her and swept it gracefully in a controlled arc. Solas cast a barrier, and as it fell over their group, Ciri dashed out to attack the suddenly sluggish mages.

She was among them before they could bring their staves to bear, whirling to strike deep into the head mage’s cloth-covered chest. A pained cry escaped him, and he swung his staff at her with aching slowness. She knocked it from his hand and struck again.

Ciri stopped for a moment as the mage dropped to the sandy ground. By the table, Cole and Solas dispatched the other two mages with ease thanks to Hawke’s spell. But Cassandra, Stroud, and Blackwall strained to hold back the warriors without violence.

“Hawke!” she cried out. “Say something!”

“Shit!” Hawke cursed. “Ah… _Desinite_! Stop! We don’t want to hurt you!”

Three still advanced, but one of them halted and called out to the others. They pulled back reluctantly, and the one who understood approached Hawke, knuckles white around his mace.

“You killed Magister Lucanus,” he said, his helmet muffling his words. “They promised us freedom if we delivered a victory to the Elder One.”

“We’d rather free you now,” Ciri said. “Your lives should belong to you, and no other.”

The warrior glanced back at his fellows, then at Ciri, his eyes hidden. “And in exchange? What do you want from us?”

“Nothing,” Ciri promised. “All I want is to do the right thing.”

“You would be welcomed in the Inquisition,” Cassandra offered.

The warrior shook his head. “Word in the camp says you have an altus in your ranks. I won’t trade one master for another.”

Ciri didn’t protest. Dorian was a friend, but she wouldn’t try to force any former slave into the presence of a Tevinter altus. “I understand.”

Cole approached the men with his lockpicks in plain view, and they held still, chins high, as he carefully picked the locks holding their collars in place. Four iron collars hit the sand, and the helmets followed, revealing faces in a range of colors and ages, from late teens to early fifties, and seashell pink to oak brown, both human and elven.

The teenager turned his back on the group and, after a moment of rustling, began pissing on the collar at his feet. The man who spoke Common, a deeply brown elf in his late thirties, grinned at the sound.

“He has the right idea, I think, but I’ll keep my cock in my trousers for now.”

“Is there anything else we can do for you?” Ciri asked.

The man shrugged. “Let us strip their valuables and leave with a bit of coin and food for the journey. We won’t be any trouble to your people.”

Ciri agreed, and the four men briskly searched the bodies and tucked coins and gems away in pockets. The teenager muttered and passed something bright to the elven man, who called out to Ciri and tossed it in a gentle arc her way.

“You’ll need this to get through that door,” he said. “There should be more around here.”

“Thank you.” Ciri examined the item carefully. It shone unnaturally with a bluish-white light and had an embossed skull on one side. It looked a great deal like the shards they’d been picking up all across Thedas, come to think of it.

The men stood from the corpses, pockets bulging.

“Thanks,” the elven man said, “for not killing us.” He hesitated, then asked, “Any chance the others are still alive out there?”

“No,” Ciri said quietly. “I’m sorry. That’s where I realized.”

The man nodded, unsurprised. “You know now.”

“I do,” she said. “Good luck out there – and, what’s your name?”

“Oran,” the man said, his voice firm. “Oran Trius.”

Oran and his comrades left without fanfare, leaving Ciri and the others to spread out through the courtyard to kill the time-locked mages and demons. With some diligent searching, they discovered the remaining keystones and approached the sealed door.

The shining keystones fit perfectly into the magical lock, and it slid open silently despite the centuries of disuse. Within, a vortex of magic swirled around a skull-topped staff planted at the center of a ritual circle, streaks of crimson painting the air with a low, ominous hum.

“This looks more like a magical experiment gone horribly right than horribly awry,” Hawke said. “Who wants to bet they were attempting to remove this building from the flow of time and trapped themselves in an over-charged gravitic ring instead?”

“As my father’s friend Zoltan might say, that’s a sucker’s bet,” Ciri said.

Solas walked along the edge of the ritual circle slowly, peering at the markings and examining the staff closely. “I believe the most expedient way to end this magic would simply be to remove the staff.”

“Is ‘expedient’ also ‘safest’?” Cassandra asked.

“In this case, they are one and the same,” Solas assured her.

At that, Hawke gripped the staff and yanked. Just beyond the doors, Ciri heard choked moans and cries, and the sound of bodies hitting the ground. They ventured back out cautiously to see the time-displaced Tevinter mages succumb to their injuries, and the demons dissolve into ichor and muck.

“Back to the rift,” Ciri said. “It’s sure to be active again.”

Within the ruins, the rift cracked and pulsed, but no demons swarmed around it. She raised her hand to close it, thankful for Hawke’s foresight. It responded to her magic eagerly, as if its centuries-long wait had made it impatient to close.

At Solas’ direction, she turned her attention to the artifact, brushing her hand over its surface and sending it flickering to life. Her tutor nodded in satisfaction.

“Let’s get that staff back to the keep,” Ciri said. “I want to see what’s so special about it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for your feedback! I like knowing I've entertained you with an update.


	42. Darkspawn and Disclosures

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ciri ventures into an old Tevinter prison with the Wardens and a few of the mercenaries. Olgierd and Josephine have a fright and a hard conversation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> beta-read by brightspot149. Thank you!

Kaariss came with news of the completed construction on their fourth day in the Western Approach, a stubby charcoal pencil tucked behind his ear and a scribbled-on piece of parchment peeking out from his belt pouch.

“We’ve cleared the way for you, Inquisitor,” he said with a lazy salute. “Whenever you want to head out, we’ll back you up.”

Stroud, not a man given to humor, looked even grimmer than usual at that. By contrast, Blackwall seemed almost eager.

“We’ll want men,” Stroud said. “Is there any indication as to where the darkspawn are coming from?”

Kaariss gave a shrug. “Somewhere beneath those ruins. We went as far as the first room. It was enough to tell those Vint cultists got in over their heads. Shokrakar thinks it might be an old prison.”

It seemed odd to build a prison all the way out here in the middle of nowhere. Then she lit on a coldly pragmatic reason. Where would the escaped prisoners run? Perhaps it made sense after all.

Stroud turned to Ciri and nodded at her dagger. “That’s your last line of defense, Inquisitor. If you’re surrounded, if the darkspawn begin to drag you off, you must slit your throat before you allow them to carry you away. The same goes for you, Hawke, and you, Seeker.”

“I take it they don’t have anything pleasant in mind for us,” Ciri said, lightly touching her dagger’s hilt.

Stroud looked to Blackwall, who gestured for him to continue. “Few know of it outside of the Wardens and the Legion of the Dead,” he said. “Darkspawn do not reproduce naturally. They require women – humans, dwarves, elves, even Qunari. They drag them to their lairs deep in the earth and force themselves on their victims for days on end until they’re changed through the magic of the Blight into broodmothers, twisted, tormented creatures. They’ll spend the rest of their lives giving birth to new darkspawn.”

Ciri shuddered. “Alright, slit my throat if they grab me. Got it.” Or teleport, as dangerous as that was for her these days.

Kaariss cleared his throat. “You want us to take this one? That funny little professor probably has more stuff he needs help with.”

For a moment Ciri was tempted. Frederic de Serault was a pleasant, if scatterbrained, man, and he hadn’t asked for much beyond their assistance in investigating carcasses the dragon had eaten and killing some of the local wildlife to make a bait they hadn’t used yet. They’d even found an old Tevinter book on draconology on the way out of the Still Ruins that made him nearly giddy. It had been sent on to Skyhold for a translation.

“The only thing left to do for him is set out the bait,” she said. “I’m not quite ready for another dragon battle. Besides, we need to put a stop to whatever it is that Servis is doing out here. From the correspondence, he seems to be someone of some authority.”

“Then you stay behind us,” Stroud said firmly. “You, Hawke, and Seeker Cassandra. Are we agreed?”

“We’re agreed,” she said.

Ciri stood, which seemed to be the signal for everyone else to get to their feet as well. They all made a quick but thorough check of their weapons and armor and proceeded down the stairs after Kaariss.

“Are you certain you don’t want the staff we found?” Ciri asked Solas.

“It’s a formidable weapon, but I believe it would be better suited in Dorian’s hands,” he said. “It interacts strangely with the Fade and isn’t suited to the way I wield magic.”

She nodded and decided to send him down to see Dagna and Harritt when they got back to Skyhold. He was still using the same rustic staff he’d been carrying around since Haven, and it was past time he acquired something better.

Down in the main courtyard, Kaariss stopped to speak with Shokrakar, who whistled sharply after a minute of listening. Half a dozen horned heads turned in her direction.

“Taarlok,” she called out. “Ashaad. Ashaad Two. You’re on meat-shield duty with Kaariss. Back to the Tevinter prison with the Inquisitor.”

Three enormous gray men broke off from what they were doing and joined the growing party without protest, grabbing their weapons as they went.

“And remember,” Shokrakar began to say.

“Even if it’s polite, don’t swallow,” Ashaad Two interrupted with a snicker.

Cassandra rolled her eyes as the mercenaries, Hawke, and Blackwall muffled their laughter.

“Exactly,” Shokrakar said. “Don’t swallow their damn blood.”

“Don’t worry, boss,” Taarlok said, slinging his greataxe over his shoulder. “Nobody wants Kaariss composing something for their eulogy. We’ll be careful.”

“It _would_ have been flattering,” Kaariss said, “but now I think twenty stanzas about the time you got your horns stuck on that Marcher noble’s chandelier might be better.”

Shokrakar smirked and waved them out the gates, and they set off across the sands toward the wooden path in the distance. Ashaad Two, Kaariss, Hawke, and Blackwall struck up a casual, somewhat ribald conversation as they walked on, while Stroud walked ahead with Cassandra and Taarlok. Ciri, Solas, and Cole took up the rear with Ashaad.

Conversation faltered as they proceeded along the narrow boards, climbing up the side of the cliff face briefly before dropping back down into a skinny canyon. The wind whipped at their clothes as it scattered sand along their path and pushed them forward. It carried a strange, foul scent toward them, something putrid and sour.

Up ahead, Stroud stiffened. “Darkspawn,” he called back quietly. “Be on your guard.”

No sooner had he spoken than something moved up ahead, a dark, jagged shadow against the pale sandy color of the canyon. Steel and wood rasped against leather as swords, staves, and an assortment of other weapons were pulled from their sheaths.

The shadow resolved into a tall, rangy creature, manlike, with a grayish-white face and milky eyes, clad in piecemeal, spiky black armor and carrying a crude sword. It bared its teeth at them and howled.

Ciri squinted. No. It wasn’t baring its teeth. It didn’t have lips.

Hawke whipped her staff forward and jabbed the tip at the approaching, howling hurlock, sending it flying skyward. The howl took on an unearthly echo as the canyon picked up the sound. She jerked her staff back and the hurlock plummeted to the stone below, landing with a wet crunch.

Still the howling persisted. Stroud listened carefully, then held up three fingers. Soft sounds of assent traveled through their group, and with the Wardens leading the way, they began to make their way deeper into the canyon.

The men had taken Stroud’s dire warning to heart. The darkspawn barely poked their heads around the corner before Taarlok took the first one’s head off and Solas fairly disintegrated the other two with magic. They never got within thirty feet of Hawke and Cassandra, let alone Ciri. She hadn’t felt so coddled since she was a child. It rankled, in a way, but the thought of being raped by monsters forever kept her from protesting.

At last, they reached the entrance to the prison. Ashaad shook his head at the broken doors.

“Vints should’ve left this place alone,” he said, scuffing a foot over a long, dried streak of blood.

"They hurt people here," Cole said. He reached for the broken doors and pulled his hand back as if it had stung him. "This isn't a good place."

Blackwall raised an eyebrow at him. “It’s a Tevinter prison that’s stuffed to the brim with darkspawn. Of course it’s not a good place.”

Cole looked back and started humming tunelessly.

“How –”

“‘Mockingbird, mockingbird, quiet and still,’” Cole sang. “‘What do you see from the top of that hill?’”

“How do you know that song?” Blackwall demanded.

“Everyone says everyone knows it,” Cole said. “The children knew it.”

Blackwall took a deep breath, his eyes dark and fearful. “Stay out of my head, lad.”

“Sorry.”

Stroud ignored the exchange and turned his attention to the broken doors, giving them a light shove. With a groan and a crack, they parted, opening into a dim hallway that smelled overpoweringly like the darkspawn from the canyon.

“Follow me,” Stroud said tersely. “And be careful.”

Bodies of Venatori mages and warriors, both collared and not, littered the hall. Splashes of blood coated the sandy floor, the lintel, the walls – the darkspawn had taken no prisoners as far as Ciri could tell. Without prompting, Solas summoned flames to consume their bodies, and she gave him a look of gratitude.

Stroud shook his head. “It is a nice thought, but this entire place is Blighted. Burning the bodies will do nothing to stop the spread.”

When the fires burned out, Solas smothered the embers with an ice spell, and they moved deeper into the prison.

“How many darkspawn do you sense?” Ciri asked. “Blackwall?”

Blackwall shot a quick glance at Stroud. “Hard to say. There could be dozens. Keep your guard up.”

Stroud gave him a look Ciri couldn’t interpret and said, “The largest concentration seems to be well below us, though I sense perhaps two dozen within the prison. Warden-Constable Blackwall is right. You should keep your guard up.”

They went down a flight of stairs, past piles of rubble and broken, hastily erected barricades. The floor was solid blocks of stone below, no trace of sand, and the air was colder but no less foul. Blood stained the ground here, too, and barred iron doors sagged on their rusted hinges. Ciri glanced in one of the cells to see a withered, ancient corpse within, a dull metal shackle clasped around one skeletal wrist.

“What do you suppose they imprisoned people here for?” she asked.

“There’s bound to be an old logbook somewhere if you're really curious," Hawke said. "My guess is political dissidents. Keep them out of the way so they don’t cause any trouble back home.”

“Hm.” Ciri wondered if she saw everything through the lens of what Anders had done.

Stroud interrupted quietly, pointing ahead to a pair of shuffling ghouls armed with rough swords. “There.”

Solas thrust his staff past Taarlok and Stroud, and the two ghouls went up in flames with pained shrieks. Their swords clattered to the floor as they charred and smoldered. 

Stroud nodded. “Good.”

A scrap of paper caught Ciri’s eye as they started to move on, and Stroud stopped her as she reached for it.

“Allow me,” he told her. He skimmed the correspondence, his brow furrowing. “These Venatori were using giants as beasts of burden, Inquisitor. With little success. I fear we’ll face a greater challenge than we anticipated farther in.”

Ciri grimaced. The last time she’d seen a giant, the White Frost had almost descended on Skellige, and the Wild Hunt had come in force. If Thedas’ giants were anything like the Continent’s, there was a hard fight waiting for them.

With the holding cells thoroughly explored, they went back up the stairs. A short black arrow collided with Blackwall’s shield, and a bone-chilling screech echoed down the sandy corridor.

“Stay behind us,” Kaariss ordered Ciri, striding forward.

Ciri had an excellent view of Ashaad Two’s wide back and shoulders as the men engaged the lurking darkspawn. She drummed her fingers on _Gynvael_ ’s hilt, wishing Triss and Solas hadn’t banned her from using magic as well. Then she might not feel completely useless.

The sounds of fighting died, and they pressed on down the hall.

“Hey Ashaad,” Kaariss said after a minute. “Got any words that rhyme with ‘blood’?”

“Mud,” Ashaad replied promptly. “Dud, crud. Thud.”

“Flood,” Ciri offered.

“Stud,” said Ashaad Two.

“Don’t help him,” Taarlok groaned.

Then they were fighting again, leaving Ciri to wait uselessly behind them.

When the skirmish was over, Stroud turned his attention to a broken grate, nodding to the gaping hole behind it. “Here’s where they broke through. We won’t be able to prevent them from reclaiming the prison for long, but replacing the grate will keep reinforcements from coming up while we’re here.”

Hawke stepped forward and gestured with her staff. The grate smoothly lifted into the air and slammed into place with a dull clang. “There,” she said with a satisfied smile.

They pushed on, passing through an archway into a heavily damaged room filled with sand and a half-broken walkway. The stench grew stronger.

Ghouls and hurlocks awaited them on the other side of the walkway. One stood taller than the rest, clad in heavier armor, and bearing a maul instead of the crude swords the others carried. As Ciri and Cassandra watched from behind, Stroud and the other men battled fiercely, with Hawke and Solas throwing spells from a distance.

Stroud, in particular, seemed to have an uncanny instinct for fighting the creatures, a sense of how they'd move and strike, borne half from long experience and half from whatever magic made him a Warden. Ciri turned her attention to Blackwall and wondered.

The fighting died down once more, and they left the damaged room behind, moving forward through a sand-filled corridor. The walls trembled, and a low roar filled the air.

“Who wants to bet that’s the giant?” Hawke asked.

“Again, Hawke, it’s a sucker’s bet,” Ciri said.

The few darkspawn in the corridor barely slowed them down, and after another minute they reached a heavy, ornate metal door. At its foot lay a mangled Venatori corpse, several days old from the scent of decay coming from the body. Stroud tried the door and knelt by the corpse to rifle through its pockets and belt pouch, not a hint of squeamishness on his face.

“The key,” he said, getting to his feet. “Let’s see what lies behind this door.”

It seemed to just lead to another corridor, but then the roar tore through again, louder and closer. Ciri drew _Gynvael_ in anticipation as they walked cautiously along. Bright sunlight shone ahead, and Taarlok gestured to their group silently.

_Tall. Close. Armed._

Hawke and Solas cast barriers over the group, and they exited the prison into a large courtyard. A massive club slammed down a mere foot from Taarlok, and the giant – a staggering twenty feet tall, with long tusks and strangely batlike ears – roared again, fierce and enraged.

“Scatter!” Kaariss ordered.

They spread out around it, behind it, a dozen stinging bees surrounding a howling, flailing dog. Ciri ducked its heavy fists and struck at the tendons behind its ankles, rolling away and dodging its club as it swung out. Lightning shot out from behind her as Solas tossed off a spell.

Ashaad Two cried out as one of the enormous, meaty hands grabbed him around the middle and hauled him into the air, squeezing mercilessly.

Kaariss shouted at the giant in rage and struck its kneecap with his mace, shattering bone with a spray of blood. The giant screeched in agony and dropped Ashaad Two as it fell to one knee. Ashaad Two scrambled back from the fray, clutching his ribs and swearing.

Ciri struck out at the giant’s good leg as Taarlok cleaved at its left arm with his greataxe. Spells flew. Steel flashed. The giant gave a last, pained wail and hit the flagstones with a jarring crash.

“Stop – _ow_ – fussing,” Ashaad Two said as Kaariss efficiently stripped open his leather jerkin to reveal deep red bruises along his ribs. “Unless this is an offer or something, in which case, be gentle with me.”

“Shut the fuck up,” Kaariss snapped. “I swear, it’s going to be thirty stanzas in blank verse at your funeral about you being a clumsy asshole who flirted with a halla when you got drunk in the Dales that one time. Baldy, you’re a healer?”

“It’s not my specialty, but I have some skill in that area,” Solas said. He extended a hand to the livid bruises, and a warm, soft light emanated from beneath his palm.

Cassandra exclaimed softly, drawing Ciri’s attention. “Look here, Lady Ciri.”

“What is it?”

She held up a sandy piece of parchment covered in writing. “The Venatori went to a fort deeper in the canyon, just beyond this prison. We’re almost there.”

That was good news. “Let’s look for an exit.”

Ashaad Two tied up his jerkin again, the bruises faint and faded against the gray of his skin. “Thanks,” he said to Solas, and “Sorry, Kaariss.”

“…Fifteen stanzas,” Kaariss conceded grudgingly.

They left the prison behind, exiting through another heavy iron door out into a narrow, open-air courtyard. Beyond that, a deep canyon yawned, dry and empty. The wind whistled past as Ciri scanned the horizon.

“There,” Ashaad said, pointing to her immediate left and up.

Set into the stone face of the canyon was a small fortress. Likely the one mentioned in the note Hawke had found.

“Does anyone need to rest?” Ciri asked.

Heads shook all around.

“Then we press on.”

The trek up the side of the canyon to the fort was steep and slippery, made worse by the fact that they were attempting to approach with stealth. Somehow, though, they managed, and they slipped in through an archway one at a time, Solas' barrier covering them.

An archer on a walkway above sounded the alarm, loosing an arrow as he did. Their warriors and mages leaped to attack.

Hawke shouted, her voice rising above the din.

“ _Desinite_ , _servorum_! Stop! I am a friend of the Blue Ghost!”

Tevene curses filled the air as a mage rushed forward from the back of the fort, snapping orders at three of the suddenly hesitant warriors. Six others, uncollared and better armored, ignored Hawke’s call.

Ciri, occupied as she was with dodging arrows and attempting to disarm another archer, missed the crucial moment.

But suddenly a bare-chested warrior was on the ground, bleeding. And the mage stood over him, staff in hand.

Then one of his comrades struck back with a howl of rage, and all was chaos.

Another mage called out as he skirted the fray. “Inquisitor! I surrender! I have no loyalty to – _urk_!”

One of his fellow mages struck him with a dark spell, cursing him roundly in Tevene.

When the battle ended, one of the slave warriors had fallen, and the right sleeve of Kaariss’ gambeson had burned away, leaving his arm blistered and red beneath. The Venatori mage who’d tried to surrender lay on the ground in a bloody lump. 

The two slave warriors remaining approached warily, their eyes darting between the mercenaries.

“Qunari?” the uninjured one asked gruffly.

“Vashoth,” Ashaad said with a shake of his horned head.

They both relaxed just the slightest bit, tensing again as Cole came near with his lock picks. As before, collars and helmets hit the floor, and the men rubbed their necks with looks of faint disbelief.

The one who’d spoken, an older, balding human man with light brown skin and deep frown lines, looked down at the bloodied wreck of the mage and spat.

“Ambitious little worm.”

His anger seemed personal. Ciri decided not to ask. “We freed another four of your comrades from Lucanus, in the Still Ruins,” she said. “Oran Trius is the name one of them gave us. They’re likely still in the Approach if you’d like to join up with them.”

The younger of the two men, pale and blond, inclined his head in agreement. “Yes. Oran is clever. He’ll know what to do.”

“Take what you like from the fort,” Ciri offered. “Coin, food, water, whatever you need.”

The men agreed and went to strip the fort while Solas tended to the wounded.

Ashaad Two hovered behind Solas as he smeared a thin layer of salve over Kaariss’ arm. “And you were getting on my ass about being clumsy. Is he going to be okay, baldy?”

“He’ll recover completely in a day or two,” Solas assured him.

Kaariss winked up at Ashaad Two. “Just tell me I’m still pretty, and I’ll axe the poem.”

“Given a choice between you and a halla,” Ashaad Two began.

Kaariss snorted with laughter. “Asshole.”

The two men returned, bags slung across their chests and tied around their waists. “You said Oran and the others were still in the Approach?”

“Our scouts saw them from a distance in the southwest,” Ciri confirmed.

The older man nodded. “Then that’s where we’ll go. Our thanks.”

“May we know your names?” Ciri asked.

The younger of the two glanced at Hawke and grinned. “We’re ghosts, too.”

And with that, they slipped from the fort.

Stroud approached, a vial of something dark and viscous cradled in his hand like precious cargo. “We can depart, Inquisitor. I believe there’s nothing more of value here.”

“Aye,” Blackwall agreed. “Let’s see where this canyon leads.”

“Ashaad and I will take the ‘worm’ back to the keep, if you want him questioned,” Taarlok offered, nudging the half-dead mage with his toe.

“That would be good, thank you,” Ciri said.

Ashaad nodded and hauled the mage none-too-gently to his feet. “Up you get, wormy. Hup-hup.”

“ _Festis bei umo canavarum_ ,” the mage wheezed.

“Are you Servis?” Ciri asked. At the mage’s pained nod, she smiled. “Good. We have questions about your activities here.”

“Oh,” Servis said weakly. “How fun.”

“Leave us a potion for wormy so he doesn’t expire. We’ll take care of the bodies and head back after you,” Taarlok said. Solas passed him a vial of something bright red, and he pocketed it, glaring down at Servis. “See you back at the keep, Inquisitor.”

“Until then.”

Ciri watched Stroud and Blackwall walk ahead of the group as they left the fort, her mind churning. Why had Cole’s song so disturbed Blackwall at the entrance to the prison?

And why was Blackwall lying about being a Grey Warden?

* * *

Olgierd lounged on the settee in Josephine’s office, idly flipping through the book of Avvar folklore on his lap as Josephine quietly worked at her desk. Faint, cheerful music and muffled conversation could be heard through the door. Her fête for the nobles was in full swing, with the high dragon’s skull on display above Ciri’s throne. It had been judged too risky for her to attend, unfortunately, so they sat tucked away together while Triss, Vivienne, and Maxwell mingled on her behalf.

The music changed to something livelier. Josephine’s foot began to tap beneath her desk, and Melora bobbed her feathered head from her perch on the mantel. He cleared his throat quietly.

“Do you do much dancing?”

Josephine set her quill aside, smiling. “I haven’t for some time now, but I love to dance. If I didn’t have duties, I’d dance my nights away at balls and masquerades. The forlana, the menuet, the sarabande, the bourrée and the volte…I love them all.”

“I’m unfamiliar with the names,” Olgierd admitted. “They sound Orlesian.”

“The sarabande is Antivan, but yes,” she said.

“No waltzes or folk dances?” he asked. “Circle dances? Jigs?”

“I’ve waltzed before, though it’s not popular in the Orlesian court,” Josephine said. “The others sound more Ferelden. The Remigold is a circle dance.”

“My brother and I never passed up an opportunity to dance,” he told her. “There was always a party on somewhere with music playing and liquor flowing, and we’d stay out until dawn broke the next morning.” He smiled, nodding his head to the music. “I should learn your dances. Give you a partner worth stepping out with at this masquerade of the duchess’.”

“I’d like that very much,” she said softly, her eyes warm.

The volume rose briefly, and Olgierd looked over to see a hooded scout slip into the room, a thin stack of letters in one hand. He rose to intercept him, but the scout waved him off.

“They’re to be delivered to Lady Montilyet directly,” the scout said, walking past him toward Josephine’s desk.

“ _Kak kak kak_!” Melora cried.

Olgierd spotted a smear of blood on the hem of the scout’s tunic and threw himself over the back of the settee, drawing his saber.

“Duck!” he barked at Josephine.

She disappeared under the desk with alacrity. The ‘scout’ spun, dropping the letters to reveal a thin, shining stiletto hidden between the folded parchment. His eyes narrowed, and the ‘scout’ brought the blade up, taking a duelist’s stance.

“ _Kak kak kak_!”

Melora swooped down from the mantel, raking her claws across the assassin’s stolen hood. As he cursed and stabbed blindly up at the shapeshifter, Olgierd struck. The blow cleaved deep into the assassin’s chest, spattering blood across Olgierd’s robe and over the office floor.

The assassin let out a breathy wheeze and collapsed, blood pooling beneath him. Melora transformed back into an elf and stared down at the corpse with fierce eyes.

“Alert Sister Leliana,” he ordered her. “She’ll want to know they’ve infiltrated her agents. I’m taking Lady Josephine back to her room.”

Melora nodded. “Do you need me to send anyone after you?”

“Have someone come clean this mess up,” he said, pointing to the assassin’s corpse with his bloody saber. “And send someone to wait outside Lady Josephine’s door in the event that the assassins try again.”

Melora took her leave swiftly, and Olgierd wiped off his saber on the assassin’s trousers. He looked down at the blood splattered across his chest and sighed. He hoped the sight wouldn’t be too gruesome for Josephine’s eyes.

“It’s safe now,” he said gently, sheathing his sword.

Josephine inched out from behind the desk, and he came closer, stopping at the fright in her eyes. She held out her hand as she looked him up and down, her gaze catching on the blood. “No, it’s not you. It’s never you. I just – Maker, he almost killed me!”

He took her hand and walked with her around the desk, keeping himself between her and the corpse. “I wouldn’t let that happen. No, don’t look. Head up, dove. Walk with purpose and no one will stop us.”

They left her office, moving briskly along the edge of the main hall and up the stairs to the interior balcony. Enchanter Letia spotted them and raised an eyebrow, and Olgierd shook his head at her. She raised her voice slightly, placing a hand on her conversation partner’s arm and turning them away.

 _Good woman_.

The sounds of music and merriment faded into the distance as they left the hall again, exiting onto the outer balcony. Olgierd tucked Josephine behind him as he cracked open her door and peered inside. Nothing stirred, and he beckoned her to follow him in. He settled her into the armchair in the corner and poked around the room, checking behind and under the bed and in the wardrobe, his hand on the hilt of his saber.

“We’re alone,” he said, closing the wardrobe. “You’re safe here.”

A nearly imperceptible tremor shook her shoulders. “Maker,” she said again, balling her hands into fists in her lap.

He knelt before her and rested his scarred hand over hers. “You’ll have word from the comtesse any day now. It’s almost over.”

“All that’s left is finding a minister to ratify the documents,” she said quietly. “If this goes on for much longer…I don’t know how much more I can take.” Her fists unclenched beneath his hand, and she slipped one out to cup his cheek. “If you hadn’t been there, I don’t know what would have happened.”

“Put it from your mind,” he said, catching her hand and kissing her knuckles. Her hands were cool, chilled from the shock of the thwarted attack.

“I’ll try.”

Josephine tugged him to his feet and stood, leading him to the table against the wall where a shallow basin of water and a linen towel lay. She dipped the towel in the water and began to lightly wipe the assassin’s blood from his neck and chest, her hazel eyes thoughtful.

“Every morning without fail, you’re there for me. You bring snacks from the kitchens and flowers from the garden to brighten my days. You’ve carried me to bed four times now. I know it must have been you. Ever since I met that assassin in Val Royeaux, you’ve been an unshakeable pillar.”

She pulled the red-stained cloth back, frowning at his robes. “I intend to write to my parents about you. I’d like you to meet them sometime.”

Olgierd stilled.

“Is something wrong?” she asked. She gave him a small smile. “My mother is stern, but I promise she doesn’t bite. And my father is very kind, if slightly absent-minded. They will love you.”

Now, in the aftermath of an attack, seemed a terrible time to come clean with the rest of his tale. Yet he couldn’t keep silent any longer. “Will you sit?” he asked her. He gestured to the chair. “Please.”

She perched on the edge of the bed instead, looking up at him with growing concern. “Olgierd, what is it? Meeting my family isn’t that frightful, is it?”

He took a steadying breath. His stomach dropped as if he stood at the edge of a sheer cliff. “You stopped me from speaking of the rest of my past. But I can’t keep it from you. This, our courtship, has grown too serious for secrets.”

Josephine shook her head fiercely. “No. I know all I need to. You’re a good man with a tragic past, and this new life you’re building in Thedas has nothing to do with who you once were.”

“Please, Josephine,” he said quietly. “Let me speak.”

He watched her swallow her next protest and press her lips together, her eyes full of worry. And with bitter regret for the future he could have had with her, he stepped off the cliff’s edge.

“Iris and I promised each other a marriage with no secrets,” he began. “It was a promise I broke at once, for I never told her of O’Dimm. I kept the curse from her, kept all my frantic efforts to break the contract. She never knew I delved into magic most would shun in an attempt to summon him and force him to free me. She worried, of course she did, but I kept her in the dark about all of it.

“Her parents hated me,” he said. “They’d made a good match with an Ofieri prince, only for the man to suddenly disappear on them and a ne’er-do-well nobleman with a gang of glorified bandits to take his place. How were they to know he’d been cursed to live out his days as a man-eating toad in Oxenfurt’s sewers?”

Josephine’s eyes widened.

“Some years passed. My heart withered in my chest. My love for Iris became a shadow, an ugly, possessive thing, but I kept my distance from her. I feared O’Dimm involving her in his game. I never stopped trying to break the contract.” He dropped his gaze to the bloody towel in her hands. “Then I almost burned the manor down in the attempt. My reach, as ever, exceeded my grasp.”

“Oh, Olgierd,” Josephine breathed, reaching out.

He shook his head. “She wished to divorce me after that. Had her father come to deliver the news. And I –”

He flexed his hand, feeling, just for a moment, the silk doublet beneath his fingers, the crack of bone against stone echoing in his ears.

“I pushed him,” he admitted. “To this day I’d swear it was an accident, but his head hit the pillar and he died in front of Iris.”

Josephine slowly pulled her hand back.

“She wished to divorce me,” he said again. “And I trapped her in that burned and crumbling manor with demons I summoned to keep her company. I left her there, more prisoner than wife, rather than free her from our marriage. She died alone nearly thirty years ago, and I may as well have killed her myself. I couldn’t even mourn her death until Ciri’s father lifted the curse almost four years ago.”

He met her gaze again and his heart sank. She sat bolt upright, leaning ever so slightly away from him, her hands twisting anxiously and her eyes filled with horror.

When she finally spoke, her voice was soft and stunned. “You said she died of a wasting illness.”

“In truth, I’ve no idea why she passed, or exactly when,” he said. “The Witcher said she died of a broken heart. I expect he has the right of it.”

It was Josephine’s turn to look down at the bloodied towel. “I don’t know what to say. I don’t know what to think.”

“I understand,” he said.

She balled up the towel in her fist and looked up at him again, torment written across her face. “You don’t! You aren’t the one being courted by a thoughtful, intelligent, gentle man who’s just told me he killed his father-in-law and imprisoned his late wife with demons!” Her eyes grew shiny with unshed tears. “ _Why_?”

“Why did I do it?” He gave a helpless shrug. “I was a monster. I’ve no better explanation.”

“Why tell me this?” she demanded. “I told you before, I didn’t need to know your past. But now – now I can’t unhear your words.”

“Sister Leliana helped me see the necessity,” he said. “It wasn’t right of me to keep this from you.”

Her eyes narrowed at Leliana’s name. “It wasn’t right of either of you to make that decision for me.”

“My apologies,” he said quietly. “I can’t change my past, but know I’d not repeat my sins.”

Josephine took a deep, calming breath and stood, blinking away the unshed tears. “I need time,” she said, her voice steady. “I look at you, and in one moment I’m overwhelmed with affection and…and attraction, and I can’t keep my head straight. And in the next, I see a man who I barely recognize, who harmed his own wife. I can’t think.”

Olgierd stepped toward the door. “Whatever you need.”

“Just…time,” she said again. “And space. It would be better if you didn’t come to guard me in my office again.”

He nodded. “As you wish. Bar the door behind me until the new guard comes.”

“Olgierd,” she called after him as he opened the door.

He turned back, his heart rising slightly. “Yes?”

“I need to think,” she said. “That’s all. We’ll speak soon.”

Three small words rose to the tip of his tongue, and he bit them back with effort. He refused to manipulate her into softening. She’d accept him on her own terms, knowing the whole of him, or not at all.

"Take care, dove," he said quietly and shut the door behind him.

Leliana loitered just outside Josephine’s room, spinning a dagger between her fingers. For the first time since he’d met her, she didn’t look at him as if she were trying to dissect him with her gaze.

“That was brave of you,” she said.

He eyed her warily. “You heard?”

“I had my ear to the door.” For once, she seemed entirely non-judgmental. “I’ve known worse men in my line of work. I still think you’re wrong for Josephine, but I believe a man can grow beyond his past.”

“I try, Sister.” He changed the subject brusquely. “Did that assassin kill your scout?”

“Scout Donnel is gravely injured,” Leliana told him. “We found him just in time. Evelyn and Triss are healing him now, and the servants are cleaning Josephine’s office.”

“Good.” He hesitated, then said, “Keep her safe for me.”

“I will,” Leliana promised. “You have my word.”

Olgierd left her as she knocked at Josephine's door, striding down the walkway to his room. He shut the door behind him and stripped off his bloodstained outer robe. With a deep sigh, he sank onto his bed and shut his eyes wearily, his heart aching.

He opened them to the fragrant back garden of his parent’s manor, still sturdy and well-tended in the days of his youth. Vlodimir hailed him from a bench amidst the flowers, a bottle in one hand and two tiny glasses in the other.

“A drink for your sorrows?” he offered.

Olgierd sat heavily beside him and swiped one of the glasses from his hand. “Pour away.”

“There’s something to be said for not settling down,” Vlodimir mused as he poured a generous measure into Olgierd’s glass. “Red-cheeked milkmaids who only want a tumble in the hayloft are much simpler than your gently-bred ladies.”

“Your milkmaids oft as not have five angry brothers and a vicious farm dog,” Olgierd retorted. He tossed the little glass back and sighed at the familiar taste of elderberry infused vodka. “Cheers.”

“Cheers.” Vlodimir grinned. “But that’s half the fun, brother. Without the risk, what good’s the reward?”

Olgierd held his glass out, and Vlodimir obediently filled it again. “We’ve a different definition of reward. A different definition of risk, as well.”

“And was it worth it?” Vlod asked. “Either the risk or the reward?”

He clenched his hand around the little glass. “I’d like to think so.” Josephine was worth it. Happiness, as Ciri had told him to find, had to be worth it.

Vlodimir slung a strong arm around his shoulders, spilling a little vodka down his front. “Drink up, then,” he said cheerfully. “Your woman will come to her senses soon enough.”

“That’s what I fear,” Olgierd said and knocked back his second glass.

“Hush. Listen to old Vlod. He knows women.”

“You know milkmaids and wide-eyednaïfs.”

“Buy her a pretty bauble, recite a poem or two, promise to take her to the city,” Vlod listed. “Tell her she’s the most beautiful woman you’ve ever seen, even if you’re lying through your teeth.”

“I just told her of how Iris and my father-in-law died.”

“Two baubles,” Vlod amended. “More vodka?”

Olgierd held out his glass. “To you, brother, and your sage advice.”

Vlodimir laughed and filled his glass again. “To us. May nothing part us but the Veil.”

Olgierd settled back against the bench, his spirits lifting just the slightest bit. Even if the worst should come to pass and he lost Josephine’s regard for good, at least he had his brother back. He could live with one more loss. He didn’t think he could live with two.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for your feedback! I like knowing I've entertained you with an update.


	43. Trouble and Tevene

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ciri and the others return to Skyhold. Ciri and Leliana discuss the mystery behind Blackwall, and Ciri has a difficult conversation with Dorian about his homeland.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> beta-read by brightspot149. Thank you!

A strange snuffling and snorting greeted them as they rode into Skyhold’s stables. Ciri peered over the stall door from her perch on Zephyr’s back, and two beady black eyes set on either side of a long, hairless gray snout peered back.

“What in Andraste’s name –?” Cassandra exclaimed.

It wiggled its long, skinny ears and snuffled again, shaking its heavy, horned head.

“I see the nuggalope bait worked,” Ciri said dryly as she dismounted. “Iron Bull should be pleased.”

The grooms came forward to take their reins, and she turned to look at the rickety cart they’d yet to unload. As if he’d felt her eyes on him, Servis sat up and waved his bound hands at her, smirking behind the gag.

“Cassandra, will you see that our guest makes it to the dungeons safely?” she asked. “He can cool his heels there while I decide what to do with him.”

“I’ll see to it,” Cassandra said. She gave the bound Venatori mage a fierce scowl. “You’ll behave yourself, ‘wormy,’ or I’ll have the Champion cast Nightmare on you again.”

Servis shook his head firmly. “M-mm!”

Ciri judged that Cassandra had him well enough in hand, and she looked to Solas. “Will you take the staff from the ruins to Dorian?”

“I’d be happy to.” He looked her over with veiled concern. “When will you come to the workroom for your next session?”

She flexed her marked hand reflexively, thinking for a moment. “Tomorrow morning,” she decided. “After breakfast. There’s too much left to do today.”

“I’ll see you after breakfast, then,” he said.

Ciri bade the others a quick farewell and left for the main hall with her saddlebags slung over her arm. There seemed to be more scouts wandering the grounds than usual, she noticed, though their hoods were all pushed down to expose their faces.

 _Odd_.

She slipped into the main hall and passed by the mingling nobles unnoticed, grateful that the weeks of accumulated grime from the road effectively made her invisible to the wealthy and powerful. She disappeared behind the door to her quarters and climbed the stairs on weary legs.

Triss greeted her from behind her desk as she dropped her bags by the loveseat. A bouquet of four-petaled white flowers with deep pink centers sat in front of her, almost glowing in the light of the afternoon sun.

“The scouts saw your approach and had water brought up,” she said, gesturing to a basin on top of her dresser. “There’s no time for a bath, I’m afraid.”

“That’s fine. Run me through what we’re discussing?”

Ciri stripped off her armor and pulled her soiled linen shirt over her head, crossing the room to the basin of steaming water. She splashed some on her face, then picked up the bar of soap and dipped the washcloth into the basin to scrub herself more thoroughly.

“Our approach to the situation at Adamant Fortress, for one,” Triss said. “Now that you’re back, I’m afraid it’s time to turn around and head right back out.”

“Of course it is. We lingered over-long in the Western Approach; I’m not surprised.”

Triss made a small sound of agreement. “Duke Cyril de Montfort wrote to you here. He’s grateful to the Inquisition for their help with the wyverns at his family’s hunting lodge and would be happy to intercede with the empress regarding Griffon Wing Keep.”

“Did we lose anyone fighting the wyverns?” Ciri asked, setting down the washcloth and soap and searching through the dresser drawers for clean clothes.

“One soldier died, and two others were injured badly.” Triss went silent a moment, then asked, “What exactly made the wyverns behave like that? You blamed Corypheus in the last meeting.”

Ciri pulled on a fresh shirt in dark indigo and turned to face Triss. “That was a lie. This world was affected by its own Conjunction of the Spheres. I hypothesized that was the case and decided to face a wyvern in Crestwood with my silver sword and draconid oil. Somehow the oil and silver triggered some sort of ancestral memory in the monster, forced it to change back to what it was before its ancestors came to Thedas.”

“And all the other wyverns in Thedas were affected the same way?” Triss asked.

Ciri nodded. “It’s why I’ve put my silver blade and oils away. The spirits have their own means of protecting Thedas from the monsters. The Witcher’s way upsets a very delicate balance.”

“Geralt and Yenna would be interested to know.”

“You can tell them next time you go back, though I don’t know what the point would be,” Ciri said. “Attempting to fight the monsters my way only made things worse.”

“They’re curious about this world. Any scrap of information about it and you would make them happy.” 

“I know,” Ciri said quietly. “I miss them, too.”

Triss looked down at the desk and flipped through the thin stack of parchment before her. “Finish cleaning up, and I’ll make the rest of this quick.”

Ciri traded her heavy wool and leather trousers for clean, charcoal-colored trousers of fine lambswool and tended to her messy, unwashed hair as Triss ran through the list of subjects. With her feet shod again and her hair pulled back in a braided bun, she turned toward Triss once more.

“Where are the flowers from?” she asked.

Triss smiled. “Owain brought them up for you from the garden. They’re called Andraste’s Grace. We’ve been using them in the potion for the Templars, but they’re pretty, too.”

Ciri brought her nose to the bouquet and closed her eyes, inhaling the soft, warm fragrance. “That’s lovely.”

On a whim, she broke off a blossom and tucked it behind her ear.

“To the War Room,” she said.

Triss scooped up the stack of papers and stood. “Don’t worry. It shouldn’t be as bad as the last meeting.”

“I’ll hold you to that.”

* * *

Ciri and Triss were the last to arrive. The other advisors murmured greetings from around the table. Owain gave Ciri a warm smile at the sight of the flower tucked in her hair.

“How are you?” Ciri asked Josephine as the meeting started.

Josephine managed a small, tired smile. “Well enough, thank you. Judge Auld and Comtesse Dionne have both responded positively to my requests. All that’s left is to find a suitable minister to ratify the documents. Michault Du Paraquette has agreed that once his family’s noble title is restored, he’ll move to call off the assassins.”

Ciri studied her quietly. The past month and a half had worn on her friend, marking dark circles beneath her pretty eyes and tracing faint lines of strain by her mouth. She seemed preoccupied by something. Even as Ciri watched her, her eyes went distant and sad.

“Josephine?”

Josephine shook her head slightly. “It’s nothing. To business?”

Ciri didn’t press the matter. “The minor things first, I suppose. This ongoing business in Wycome. I see that Keeper Istimaethoriel has written again about the situation. The duke is dead, the nobles have fled, and the Dalish elves are in charge? I wasn’t expecting that outcome.”

“Neither were we,” Leliana said. “But the nobles have turned to the nearby city-states with tales of murderous elves and riled them into marching on Wycome.”

“Diplomacy may win the day again,” Josephine said, but she sounded hesitant.

Cullen stepped forward. “I disagree. This will end poorly if we don’t scare them off with a show of force.”

Ciri looked at him for a moment in mild curiosity. She’d thought he was past the worst of the withdrawal, but he looked – not sick, like before, but stressed. _What happened while I was away_?

“The commander has the right of it,” Owain said. “Marcher nobles are an intemperate lot. You won’t appease them with words when they’re this set on a fight.”

“Speaking from experience?” she asked with a wry smile.

He grinned. “Possibly.”

“Will we have enough soldiers to spare for this?” she asked. “We’re heading to Adamant Fortress soon.”

Cullen frowned. "Three squads should be sufficient if we send the Bull's Chargers with them as backup."

That sounded like a good idea. They hadn’t given the Iron Bull’s mercenary band much to do so far, and they were a considerable expense.

“See to it, then. Next –” She glanced down at the parchment Triss had given her. “Dagna’s report on the Anchor. She writes that it’s akin to a skeleton key to the Fade. Theoretically, it could create rifts if turned to that purpose. There’s also a bit in here about being the size of a mountain and having a thought that’s all of her people’s thoughts…I’m not sure what that’s about.”

“She does work with some questionable substances,” Raúl suggested.

It rang a bell, though. “No, I’m sure I’ve come across something about it. It will come to me eventually.”

“That ability to create rifts is likely a small part of what Corypheus intended it for, judging by the Breach,” Chancellor Roderick said. “That’s a dangerous gift.”

“I wouldn’t want to,” Ciri assured him. “The stronger the Veil is, the better.”

“Then it’s all to the good that the Maker put it on your hand, and not anyone else’s.”

Ciri shuffled the parchment and looked up at Triss. “You’ve made progress on the cure for lyrium addiction?”

“We have a final version,” Triss corrected her. “We tested it on some of the blood samples and it worked as we’d hoped. Clemence and Evelyn were instrumental in figuring out the proportions for the last potion.”

Raúl softly thumped a proud-looking Owain’s shoulder. “Of course they were,” he said.

“That’s my sister,” Owain said simply. “Thank you, Triss.”

“Yes, thank you,” Cullen added. In contrast to the other former Templars, he seemed almost conflicted at the news, a regretful look coming into his eyes. “Please pass on my gratitude to Clemence…and to Evelyn.”

“You should thank her yourself, Commander,” Triss said.

Cullen shook his head. “Unfortunately, we don’t have the time to be out of commission while your potion works,” he said, changing the subject. “We’ll have to wait until after we’ve dealt with the Wardens at Adamant Fortress.”

“I assume you have thoughts on that?” Ciri asked.

“We’ve been putting together plans since your raven arrived,” Owain told her. “Erimond seems like the greatest danger here, though given what Stroud told you of the ensorcelled mages, we’ll likely face stiff resistance and a heavy presence of demons in the fortress.”

“Adamant’s a venerable fort, but its walls are ancient,” Cullen said. “With the right equipment, we could take them down with little trouble.”

Josephine frowned. “There was a dearth of volunteers, unfortunately, but Duke Bastien de Ghislain’s son Laurent and Duke Cyril de Montfort reached out to Lady Seryl of Jader to convince her to aid us. Her sappers will meet you there with her trebuchets.”

“Please write Lady Seryl an appropriately thankful letter,” Ciri said. “And extend my sincere gratitude to Lord Laurent and Duke Cyril for their assistance.”

Josephine nodded and made a note on her clipboard.

“Who do you intend to take with you?” Leliana asked. “Messere von Everec would be a good choice.”

Josephine’s hands tightened around the edges of her clipboard.

“Josephine?” Ciri said.

Josephine swallowed and looked away. “I am well guarded here. He should be at your side for this battle.”

“If you’re sure.” She had missed his company. “As for the rest, Varric and Solas, certainly. And –”

She hesitated.

“Blackwall,” she said.

Leliana’s eyes sharpened, but all she said was, “Are you certain?”

“I know their strengths, and I can rely on them in battle,” Ciri said. “The others we’ll split into two groups and assign a squad of soldiers each. Cassandra, Dorian, and Cole to one group, and the Iron Bull, Vivienne, and Sera to another.”

“I’ll see to it they have good men and women assigned to them,” Cullen said. “We’ve arranged to meet Lady Seryl’s sappers in three and a half weeks. That will give you time to rest before we muster our forces and head out.”

“We leave the day after tomorrow,” Ciri said. “Where will you be in all this?”

“Raúl and I will be in the vanguard,” Owain said with calm assurance. “The commander will coordinate the attack from outside the walls.”

Ciri knew Owain was nearly her equal when she stuck to straight sword fighting. She had to trust he’d come through the battle safely. “Don’t take risks,” she said softly.

His eyes were intense as they met hers. “Same to you.”

She held his gaze for a moment, then looked back at Cullen. “I assume you three have the army’s logistics worked out? Supply lines, requisitions, equipment?”

“We do,” he confirmed. “We’re ready to march on your order.”

“Then I believe that’s all. Leliana, if you could stay behind for a moment, I’d like a word with you.”

Triss and the other advisors filed out of the War Room. Owain lingered in the doorway for a few seconds. “I’ll see you at supper?” he asked.

“Of course,” Ciri agreed. “I’ll look for you in the hall.”

He gave her a warm smile and left, shutting the door behind him.

“Ser Owain has good taste in flowers,” Leliana said. She gestured to the blossom tucked behind Ciri’s ear. “My mother loved Andraste’s Grace. She’d dry them and put them in her wardrobe to freshen her clothes. The scent has always reminded me of my childhood.”

Leliana seemed almost wistful, her sharp eyes muted as they lingered on the flower.

Ciri reached up to touch it gently. “Do you go out to the garden often?”

“When work doesn’t demand my presence in the rookery,” Leliana said. “I find it soothing.” The softness in her eyes faded slightly, and she asked, “What did you require of me, Inquisitor?”

“Blackwall,” Ciri said simply. “Do you know who he really is?”

Leliana shook her head. “I’m at a loss. I believed him to be a Grey Warden as he said when he first arrived, but I became suspicious not long after.”

“What tipped you off?”

“He claims to have been in Ferelden during the Blight,” Leliana said. “That’s simply not possible. All the Grey Wardens in Ferelden but King Alistair and Queen Elissa were killed at Ostagar, and Warden-Constable Gordon Blackwall was stationed in Val Chevin at the time.”

“Both Stroud and King Alistair spoke highly of Warden Blackwall, but they know of him by reputation only,” Ciri said, turning the problem over in her mind. “Warden Blackwall is, or was, clearly a real person. But the man claiming to be Warden Blackwall is not him.”

Leliana made a soft sound of agreement, then said, “And yet, it’s equally clear he’s here out of a sincere desire to help. He wouldn’t have stood with you during Corypheus’ attack on Haven otherwise, or aided you in Crestwood or the Western Approach.”

“Claiming expertise he doesn’t have is dangerous,” Ciri countered. “We went into a darkspawn-filled ruin in the Western Approach, and I never would have known about broodmothers or how contagious the Blight is if Blackwall had been the only ‘Warden’ with us. And when we were in Crestwood, we ate fish from a lake that might have been contaminated by Blight. I only had the meal because I trusted his word as a Warden that it was safe.”

Leliana looked grim at that. “You have a fair point. Broodmothers are a unique evil, and if you’d been unknowingly tainted on bad advice, the entire Inquisition would have collapsed. Not to mention the Grey Warden treaties we invoked, though I’ll admit that was my idea.”

“King Alistair has already agreed to give them his support, so it’s not a complete loss,” Ciri told her. “But still…”

“What do you want to do?”

"I'm not sure," Ciri admitted. "I like the man, whoever he is. He reminds me of Vernon Roche and Ves, in a way – veterans of Temeria's special forces. He has that military bearing and earthy sense of humor, and he seems devoted to doing good."

“Military veterans?” Leliana cocked her head in interest. “That may be a lead. Would you like me to look into it?”

“Please do, and bring what you find to me,” Ciri said. “Something else that might help is a song Cole sang that disturbed him greatly. How did it go… ‘Mockingbird, mockingbird, quiet and still, what do you see from the top of that hill?’”

“‘Can you see up? Can you see down?’” Leliana sang quietly. “‘Can you see the dead things all around town?’ It’s a children’s rhyme that’s popular in the towns around Lake Celestine. That is helpful. A Marcher military veteran who is unsettled by a regional Orlesian children’s song…curious.”

“In the meantime, I’ll keep him with me for the battle,” Ciri said. “I believe I can trust him at my back, and his concern for the Wardens does seem genuine.”

“True,” Leliana agreed. “I’ll put my agents on this at once. If there’s anything else?”

Ciri hesitated. “Is there any news about Papillon?”

“Some.” Leliana beckoned her over to the map, where she took a handful of raven tokens and placed them on cities and towns in a rough circle around Lydes – Val Royeaux, Halamshiral, Val Foret, and Verchiel. “Her presence is felt most strongly here, less so the farther from Lydes one goes. Strangely, there’s no sign of her influence anywhere in Lydes, but it’s the center of the web.”

“So you think Agnesot is her backer?” Ciri asked.

“Only recently. And before Lydes was the center, it was Verchiel.” Leliana picked up the tokens again and said quietly, a note of caution in her voice, “Grand Duchess Florianne holds Lydes now that Duke Remache has died.”

“Then the peace talks are sure to be interesting, aren’t they?” Ciri gave her a grateful nod. “Thank you for the information, Leliana. I appreciate it.”

Leliana gave her another small smile, her eyes warm. “It’s my pleasure, Inquisitor. Have a good evening.”

Ciri left the War Room at a brisk walk, slowing as she approached Josephine’s office. Her friend sat behind her desk, hard at work as usual, but there was a listlessness to her movements that concerned her. From the way Enchanter Letia and Rona snuck glances at her as they kept guard from the settee, she wasn’t the only one to find it troubling.

“Are you alright, Josephine?” she asked.

Josephine looked up from her paperwork, a pensive expression falling from her face as she met Ciri’s eyes. “I’m well, thank you,” she said politely.

“You seem troubled,” Ciri pressed.

Josephine looked away briefly. “It’s…I’m thinking some things over.”

Ciri made a guess. “We’ll have the House of Repose dealt with soon.”

“It’s not that, it’s… Did you know?” Josephine asked. She glanced at Letia and Rona and lowered her voice. “About Olgierd’s past.”

 _Oh_.

“I did,” she said, equally quietly. “My father is the one who helped him. He told me the story.”

“I don’t know what to think.” Josephine dropped her hands to her lap, her fingers twisting together in an anxious gesture. “My mind and heart are at war with each other.”

Ciri drew closer, and she rested a consoling hand on Josephine’s shoulder. “When I first met him, I was determined not to like him,” she said softly. “But I couldn’t. He wasn’t at all like I’d imagined him to be. I’d pictured a monster and found a man instead. All that he’s been here in Thedas, everything you’ve seen, that’s truly him.”

Josephine frowned down at her knotted fingers. “How do you forgive someone for something like that? Is it even my place to forgive it? He’s been nothing but a perfect gentleman with me, and yet…”

“And yet, now you know.” Ciri squeezed her shoulder and pulled her hand back. “I can’t tell you what to do. The man you met in Haven _is_ Olgierd – thoughtful, chivalrous, witty, cultured, and a bit melancholy. It’s up to you if you can live with his past or not.”

Josephine sighed. “I…he is so dear. But what he did…” She looked up at Ciri again, a plea in her eyes. “Keep him safe at Adamant for me?”

“You have my word,” Ciri promised her.

“Thank you.” Josephine turned back to her paperwork, pensiveness settling across her face again.

Ciri gave Letia and Rona quiet greetings on her way out of the office. There wasn’t much time before supper, and she wanted to find Dorian. She had questions about their prisoner – and about the Venatori.

* * *

She found Dorian in his usual nook in the library, slouched in his armchair with a letter in his hand and grief in his eyes. His new staff leaned against the bookcase beside him, looking just as eerie as it had when they’d found it.

“Dorian?”

He dropped the letter to his lap and cleared his throat. “Ah. Maevaris sent word from Minrathous.”

“More information about Corypheus?”

“Something a bit more personal, I’m afraid.” He folded the letter with gentle hands and tucked it into a nearby book. “Felix succumbed to his illness.”

Ciri’s heart clenched at Dorian’s clear sorrow. “I’m sorry. He was a good man.”

“He was,” Dorian agreed. “But I’m glad he’s not suffering any longer. Mae wrote that when he went back to Tevinter, he attended a session of the Magisterium and spoke out against the Venatori and Corypheus. Praised you and the Inquisition. He always was as good as his word.”

“Does Alexius know yet?” Ciri asked.

Dorian hunched his shoulders. “I haven’t found it in me to even speak to him again. This would be a poor start to things. But he does deserve to know, doesn’t he?” He slumped back deeper in his chair and gave Ciri a quizzical look, pushing his sorrow aside. “But what brings you to my little corner of the library?”

“We ran into Venatori in the Western Approach,” Ciri told him. “Some of their leaders were killed, but we captured one, a Crassius Servis. He said he studied at the Minrathous Circle of Magi. You mentioned that you attended that school.”

“Among a dozen others,” Dorian said, flicking his fingers dismissively. “But ‘Servis’? That’s a laetan surname at best, and one that tends to be changed by petition to a magistrate due to its implications. It’s more common among the _servorum_. Like the Ferelden occupational surnames, ‘Smith’ and ‘Tanner’.”

“So you’re saying –”

“I’m saying only what anyone who knows Tevene would know,” he said. “He must have been quite talented to get a place at the Minrathous Circle. And worked quite hard to obtain a position of authority in the Venatori.”

 _‘Ambitious little worm,’_ the warrior had called him. Was that why? Did they see it as a betrayal?

Ciri lowered her voice. “Speaking of slaves.”

Dorian grimaced. “Oh, dear.”

“Were you aware that the Venatori were using slave warriors? Because that came as something of a shock to me.”

“It seemed obvious,” Dorian said. “Even back in Redcliffe, no self-respecting free man of Tevinter would go around armed and armored like something out of a gladiatorial stage production. That’s window dressing to show off their merchandise, not anything sensible or useful.”

“Yes, well, I didn’t know that,” Ciri whispered furiously. “I didn’t know anything about your culture except what little you and Evelyn have told me! I thought those collars were gorgets!”

“Should I have told you?” he asked her.

“Yes! We could have prevented at least a dozen more deaths if I’d known.”

He raised his eyebrows. “Truly? How unusual. How did you manage that?”

“Hawke did it,” Ciri said. “Fenris taught her some Tevene. She called out for them to stand down, and they did. Cole picked the locks on their collars, and we gave them supplies and let them go on their way.”

“You didn’t invite them to join the cause?”

“Cassandra did,” Ciri told him quietly. “They’d heard there was an altus in the Inquisition and didn’t want to be enslaved again.”

Dorian winced. “Ah. The ‘dread Tevinter magister’ strikes again. From a rather unexpected direction, no less.”

“ _Do_ you have slaves back in Tevinter?” she asked, a sour feeling rising in her stomach.

“I don’t,” he said swiftly. He drummed his fingers on the arm of his chair and added with reluctance, “My family has four – all well treated, I assure you.”

She took a step back, crossing her arms. Perhaps her time as Bonhart’s prisoner, and as an unwilling arena fighter, had made her more sympathetic than she would have otherwise been. But she understood just a little what it meant to have her freedom denied to her. She couldn’t say that the Continent was without fault. Nilfgaard’s war tactics took refugees and turned them into cheap slave labor and military conscripts. Even her beloved Skellige took thralls. She’d seen the hopeless faces of the dancing women in Kaer Trolde’s hall dozens of times as a child and thought little of it then.

She’d hoped to find better here, and it was bitterly disappointing to learn otherwise.

“It’s a vile practice,” she said evenly.

“And yet it endures,” Dorian said. “Did you know that the last archon who tried to abolish slavery was promptly assassinated? And slave uprisings are always put down in such a bloody fashion that it takes generations before another one is attempted.”

Ciri looked at him seriously. “You said you and Alexius wanted to reform Tevinter. Is this one of those things you thought needed reformation?”

Dorian’s eyes slid away from hers. “We hadn’t discussed that. We spoke of corruption in the Magisterium, nepotism, abuse of blood magic – Tevinter’s economy would collapse without slavery, you understand.”

“I understand that change can be painful,” Ciri said. “Someone with power needs to speak out.”

“You overestimate just how much power one pariah has, even a pariah with the right family name.” He winced. “You’re going to get me assassinated, too, I hope you know.”

“Won’t Maevaris help you?”

He looked tentatively hopeful at that. “Mae does have a little cohort of fellow idealists in the Magisterium. They might be willing to consider it.”

“I hope so.”

Dorian gave her a decisive smile and changed the subject. “Solas tells me you found this fascinating staff in a ruin frozen in time. It feels a bit like Alexius’ amulet. Not quite as volatile, thankfully, but still, very interesting. And the aesthetic fits well with my specialization,” he added with a gesture to the polished white skull at the top of the staff.

“I’m glad you like it,” she said. “You would have found the Still Ruins quite intriguing, I’m sure.”

“I appreciate the souvenir, though I would like to be included in your next outing,” he said. “I’m running out of books to read, even if Max’s old professors did come through for him.”

“The horror,” Ciri said dryly. “I’d love to have time to curl up with a good book.”

“Is that a yes?”

“That’s a yes,” Ciri agreed. “After Adamant. Wherever it is the advisors send me, you can come.”

“Splendid.”

“You should spend some time with Maxwell while you can,” she told him. “We march the day after tomorrow.”

“I’m meeting him down in the hall for supper. Will you join us?” Dorian asked as he stood from his armchair.

“I’d be happy to, though we’ll have to find Owain first,” Ciri said.

Dorian laughed. “Unless he’s already seated, that shouldn’t be hard at all. Tell me, dear lady, do you ever get a crick in your neck when you kiss him?”

Ciri swatted his arm, laughing a bit herself as they ventured down the stairs. “Wouldn’t you like to know!”

“Oh, but I’m serious,” Dorian continued. “Do you think the new apprentices at the Markham Circle were told to go stand under Ser Owain if they were ever lost, and someone would be around to collect them eventually?”

“You’re terrible!”

Owain waved to them as they entered the main hall, Maxwell at his side. Ciri bit back laughter – he stood at least a head taller than almost everyone around him. He really was ridiculously tall for a human. She wouldn’t change a thing about him, though.

“Welcome back,” Maxwell said as Ciri went up on tiptoe to brush a kiss on Owain’s cheek.

“It’s good to be back,” she said, smiling. “What’s for supper?”

“Roast goose,” Owain told her. “The cooks heard you were arriving today.”

They crowded in at the table together, Ciri’s side pressed up against Owain’s. She knocked her foot against his playfully as her stomach rumbled.

Two relationships had crumbled while she’d been away, and much was still unsettled – Blackwall, Papillon, Servis. But she couldn’t solve everything in one short day. Not with Adamant looming on the horizon.

 _Later_ , she decided, reaching for a serving bowl. _Tomorrow’s problems can keep a while longer._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm considering switching my update day from Sunday to Saturday, the same hour. If this is better or worse for you, let me know! 
> 
> I do really appreciate the comments you leave. It makes me happy to know I've entertained you for a little while!


	44. Sieges and Standoffs

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Inquisition besieges Adamant Fortress, and Ciri and Stroud do their best to mitigate damage. A confrontation with Clarel and Erimond goes awry, leading to the greatest danger Ciri has faced in Thedas yet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beta-read by brightspot149. Thank you!
> 
> chapter-specific warning: brief graphic violence (desecration of a corpse for blood magic)

Ciri braced for the deafening crash as a boulder smashed into Adamant’s outer wall mere yards from where she stood. At her side, Solas renewed their barrier just in time. Blackwall cursed and held his shield above his head as the Wardens above flung chunks of masonry down on them. To the front, the foot soldiers swung the battering ram against the gates with rhythmic thuds while to her left and right, ladders went up for their people to scale.

_Thud. Thud. Thud. CRASH._

The soldiers abandoned the battering ram and rushed into the lower bailey with a roar. Ciri followed close behind, her heart pounding.

Demons and dull-eyed Warden mages awaited them within. She raised _Gynvael_ and lashed out at the nearest rage demon. It roared in anger as its wound hissed and steamed. She ducked its claws, half-somersaulting back, then sprang forward to thrust her blade deep into its formless chest. It groaned and collapsed into a puddle of muck, and she turned to find another opponent.

A shade screeched as Stroud ran it through. Olgierd sent a Warden mage shrieking to his death, flames engulfing him. The last of the Wardens fell.

Owain strode around the wreckage of the gate, his greatsword strapped to his back and his eyes steely beneath his helmet.

“We have people on the walls clearing the way for you,” he said. “We’ll try to keep the greater host of demons occupied while you press in to find Erimond and Clarel. Hawke went up the ladders with Seeker Cassandra’s team. They should be easy enough to find.”

Ciri nodded. “I’ll look for her. Stay safe.”

“You, too.”

They both looked up at a scream and saw a shade toss an Inquisition soldier from the battlements. It stared down at them with black eyes, then disappeared back behind the wall.

_Damn it._

“Better hurry,” he told her, his voice grim. “We’ll do our part about the resistance up there, but if you can help –”

“Of course.”

She watched him go for a moment, then gathered herself. “Stroud,” she called out. “We’re following your lead here.”

Stroud pointed to an archway leading to sand-covered stairs. “This way, Inquisitor.”

“The mages might be a lost cause, but we can try to get the warriors to stand down, can’t we?” Blackwall asked as they proceeded through the archway.

“We can certainly try, Hero,” Varric said.

Beyond the stairs, Wardens armed with bows and swords prowled back and forth across the shifting sand, ignoring the corpses sprawled across the ground. A cry rang out as they caught sight of Ciri and her companions.

“Hold!” Stroud called to them. “We’re only here to stop whatever Clarel is planning. Can’t you see this is madness?”

An arrow struck his shield in answer.

“You traitor, Stroud!” the archer who loosed the arrow shouted. “We’re saving Thedas here! You’re the mad one!”

Grimly, Stroud drew his sword, and the fight was on again. Ciri parried an arrow and cut down an approaching warrior, darting across the sand to strike at the kneeling archer. Olgierd and Stroud took on the Warden armed with a tower shield, Stroud fighting with an elegant economy of motion and Olgierd alternating between fire magic and brutal strikes with his saber.

Finally the Warden fell, and Blackwall shook his head.

“Damn shame.”

“Some of them might see reason,” Ciri said. “We’ll keep trying.”

They pressed on, up a short flight of stairs to a stone walkway. Above them, the night sky was clear and cool. Flashes of orange lit the night, each one sending a booming crash through the air, and a tremble through the stone beneath Ciri’s feet.

Two shades emerged from the flagstones before the door ahead, swooping forward silently. Varric cursed and shot a bolt from Bianca, and one of them screeched in indignation and anger as it lodged in its sinewy gray chest.

Solas raised his staff, and lightning arced down with a blinding flash. Ciri blinked away the spots in her vision to see black scorch marks marring the stone and no sign of either shade. She raised an eyebrow at Solas, who nodded to her calmly.

On they went.

Past the door, Ciri saw Wardens in a standoff down in a courtyard below, a small cluster of warriors holding off mages and demons at sword point.

“Stay back!” one of the warriors demanded, his voice sharp with desperation. “We will not be sacrificed for some insane ritual!”

Ciri rushed down the stairs, her companions quick on her heels. The dull-eyed Warden mages broke off from harassing their comrades, casting icy glyphs and sending their demons forth.

Solas swung his staff wide, and magic settled on the ground below, dispelling the glyphs. Ciri dodged an arcane bolt, so close it hummed as it passed her, and lunged forward to thrust at the caster. Nearby, a mage went up in flames. Stroud and Blackwall charged across the courtyard to aid the harried warriors.

Ciri spun out of the way of another arcane bolt and lashed out at the mage’s arm, biting deep with her blade. He dropped his staff, face blank, and summoned a fistful of lightning to his empty hand. She gritted her teeth and slashed across his unarmored chest. He fell silently, his dull eyes clearing to confusion and terror before dimming forever.

“Just keep your distance!” the warrior yelled as the last demon dissolved into ichor.

“Warden Chernoff, we are not enemies,” Stroud said sternly.

Chernoff’s knuckles whitened around the hilt of his sword. “Why should I trust you, Stroud? You’re a traitor to the Wardens! Clarel called for your death!”

“Clarel has lost her way,” Stroud argued.

“You expect me to turn on my fellow Wardens?” Chernoff asked incredulously. “Like you did?”

“We aren’t here to kill Wardens,” Ciri cut in. “We only want to stop whatever it is that Erimond has convinced Warden-Commander Clarel to do. You have my word as Inquisitor. Just fall back, and no one will harm you.”

Warden Chernoff nodded slowly, still looking wary. “Alright. My men and I will stay back. We want no part of this.”

They left the Wardens behind, venturing deeper into the venerable old fortress. 

“Thank you, Inquisitor,” Blackwall said.

“Yes, that was well said,” Stroud agreed. “I had hoped that some of them would come to their senses.”

Stroud pushed open a heavy metal door, and they went through cautiously, hands on their weapons. Two shades milled about by a hastily constructed wooden staircase leading to the battlements, and at their approach, they shrieked and rushed forward, claws extended.

Olgierd caught the faster demon's claws on his blade, parrying and breaking away. He struck at it heavily, fire in his off hand, setting it alight even as it screeched in pain from its wound. Just beyond Ciri's shoulder, Solas sent an emerald green spell smashing into the other shade, pummeling it into oblivion.

Ciri indicated the wooden stairs. “Let’s go help our soldiers.”

Up the stairs they went, the sound of battle growing louder. A boulder wreathed in flames collided with the walkway ahead, scattering Wardens with a tremendous crash. More Wardens spotted their approach and raced to attack.

They pushed forward, fighting through the warriors to the crush of demons around the ladder. A rage demon froze in place, ice holding it captive, and it shattered beneath the blow of a greataxe. Another shade fell, an arrow through its head.

“Good to see you,” Raúl greeted Ciri, wiping a smear of blood from his cheek. “They’re targeting the ladders, pushing them off. We’ve kept them busy, but they’re persistent bastards.”

“We managed to get a few of them to stand down a few minutes ago,” Ciri said. She glanced around at the chaos ruling the battlements. “You might not want to chance trying, though.”

“Between my spells and the flat side of the Iron Bull’s axe, we can always attempt to render them senseless rather than dead,” Vivienne said.

“Keep movin’!” Sera urged her. “We’ve got this one.”

Ciri nodded. “Where’s Hawke?”

The Iron Bull pointed down the battlement to a small watchtower. “I saw her ladder go up over there, on the other side of that.”

“Thanks. Be careful.”

“Don’t worry about us,” Raúl said. “You just stay in one piece.”

They left their group behind, moving swiftly down the rubble and blood-strewn walkway. Two Wardens lingered at the entrance to the watchtower and straightened in alarm at their approach.

“Hold!” Stroud called.

“Up your arse, traitor!” the archer shot back, loosing an arrow.

Varric returned the favor, and the archer toppled over, a bolt in his eye. The warrior shouted in rage and leaped at them, sword drawn, only to be met by Solas and Olgierd’s spells.

Stroud frowned down at the charred, smoking corpse as they passed it. “Poor fools.”

“Some of them listened,” Ciri said.

“Four,” he said bitterly. “Out of hundreds.”

They made their way up the steps into the intact watchtower and pushed open the heavy door on the other side. Mayhem met their eyes. Warden mages cast spells from behind makeshift barricades while a despair demon swooped around the battlements, shrieking and blowing a chill wind across its enemies. On the other end of the walkway, a pride demon stomped about, roaring and scattering sparks of lightning.

“It’s about time!” Hawke called to them. “You were going to miss the fun!”

Solas tossed a barrier over them as they waded into the fray. Ciri found herself shoulder to shoulder with Rona, harrying one of the mages. They dodged spellfire, attacking and retreating, Ciri slashing and Rona bludgeoning. At last, the mage faltered, and Rona drew her dagger across his throat.

The despair demon fell to Olgierd, the last two mages to Dorian and Hawke. In the distance, Cassandra, Stroud, and Blackwall surrounded the pride demon, battering it with sword and shield.

Ciri and Rona exchanged a glance and wordlessly went to help.

The five of them surrounded it, striking out and ducking back as it lashed out with claws and lightning. Its armored hide was tough as steel, and it stood taller and broader than a Qunari. Between them, however, they wore it down, and its heavy swipes slowed. Ciri drove _Gynvael_ deep in between the thinnest of its armored plates, her muscles straining from the effort.

It roared and fell to one knee, shedding lightning from its claws. Rona smashed it between its several beady black eyes with her mace.

“Die already, damn it.”

It dissolved into a puddle of green ichor and muck, freeing Ciri’s blade.

“Good timing,” Hawke said as she strolled up. She looked no worse for wear. “Resistance was heavy here.”

Ciri cast her eyes over her friends. Dorian’s arm bore a long, red scrape, and Cassandra’s tabard was singed, but they otherwise seemed fine. She looked beyond, down the battlements to the fighting farther away.

“Keep the demons off the soldiers,” she said to Hawke. “We’ll meet down below.”

“I’ll keep the bastards off them,” Hawke agreed. “Get going, Inquisitor.”

Ciri led the way up the damaged walkway to the next knot of fighting, skirting chunks of rubble and puddles of bright green ichor. Her heart dropped at the sight of a limp arm trapped beneath a broken piece of the battlements. From the uniform, she could tell it was a Warden. 

_There will be rites and funerals later. The living need your help, not the dead_.

At the end of the walkway, four beleaguered Inquisition soldiers struggled to hold their own against a pride demon and a trio of shades. Ciri jumped to assist, her companions quick to follow suit. She cut down one of the shades, whirling to strike at another, while Varric shot at the third from a distance.

The fight against the pride demon was again one of attrition, but it fell in the end, and Ciri gave the soldiers the same worried look over she’d given Cassandra, Dorian, Cole, and Rona.

“Are you well?”

“We’ll be fine, Your Worship. Thank you.”

She nodded. There was nothing left to do to help. All she could do was find Warden-Commander Clarel and Erimond.

They headed back down the walkway in the direction they’d come from. The stone trembled beneath their feet with each jarring crash of the boulders flung from the trebuchets at the walls. Her boot stepped in something suspiciously soft and slick. She didn’t look down.

"This way," Stroud said, pointing to a staircase leading down into a small courtyard.

They headed down, skirting a fallen chunk of crenellation as they went. The door at the far end of the little courtyard looked promising, and Ciri pushed it open with some effort.

It led to a ruined, sand-strewn hall open to the elements above. Iron bars barred their way along one side. The only way to go was forward.

The ceiling above shook and juddered at another pounding hit from the trebuchets as they entered a hall below the battlements. The outer wall had fallen ages ago, and the Wardens had done cursory repairs with lumber. No one stood in their way as they kept moving forward toward the faint sounds of battle ahead.

Ciri pushed open the door at the end of the hall to see a rage demon fall, cut in half by a brutal blow from Owain’s greatsword. At his back, Hawke sent a shade soaring into the night sky.

“I kept as many of your men safe as I could,” Hawke said in greeting.

Owain nodded. “We’ve taken some losses, but Serah Hawke is a force to be reckoned with.”

That was good to hear.

“Where are Clarel and Erimond?” Ciri asked.

“They’re holed up just beyond that little courtyard there, with several dozen Wardens,” Owain told her. “We’ve been holding this position for your arrival.”

“No time to lose, then,” Ciri said.

She led the way through the small, sandy courtyard, nodding to the waiting soldiers on either side of the door. “We’re not looking for a fight,” she said. “We want to see if we can get Clarel to stand down.”

“Erimond will be a problem,” Hawke warned her.

“Then we’ll deal with him. But we’ll try talking first.”

She pushed open the door and walked through, into a wide-open space filled with Grey Wardens. At the center, a large rift stretched and shifted lazily, not quite active, its emerald light casting an eerie glow over the faces of the people assembled. Few were watching the rift. Ciri turned her gaze to see what had captured their attention only for her heart to drop.

A young elven woman fell in a crumpled heap on the landing above, her face a mask of fright, and her throat slashed open wide. A ribbon of blood flew through the air to the rift in a rush. Above the elven woman’s corpse, an older, pale human woman stood, clad in Warden regalia with a staff on her back. Her gray hair was shaved close to her skull, and she held a bloody dagger in her hand.

At her side, a mage with greasy black hair and pallid cheeks looked on approvingly. He spotted their approach and narrowed his eyes.

“Stop them!” he called out, laying his hand on his staff. “The ritual cannot be interrupted!”

Ciri strode forward. “Have you seen your mages, Warden-Commander?” she shouted. “If you do this ritual, you’ll be lost, too!”

“Lost?” Erimond scoffed. “Lost in certainty! The certainty that they’re sacrificing for the greater good! Who wouldn’t want that?” He sneered and tightened his grip around his staff as he caught sight of Hawke. “Yes, the ritual calls for blood sacrifice. Hate _me_ if you must, but do not hate the Wardens for their commitment to their duty!”

“I don’t hate blood magic, you smarmy little asshole!” Hawke yelled. “I’m friends with a blood mage! The difference is that she’d never slit someone’s throat or kiss a darkspawn’s ass for power! Or didn’t you tell them you answer to Corypheus?”

Warden-Commander Clarel’s eyes widened. “Corypheus?” she echoed, so softly Ciri could barely hear her. “That can’t be possible.”

Erimond leaned over and muttered in her ear, and Warden-Commander Clarel’s hesitance disappeared.

“Bring it through!” she called down to the Warden mages below.

A cold, triumphant light lit Erimond’s pale eyes as the Warden mages lifted their staves. The rift slowly cracked awake. Within it, something enormous shifted, blinking huge, milky white eyes.

“You idiots!” Hawke snapped. “You couldn’t make it just a little bit harder for the Venatori? You’ve practically gift-wrapped yourselves!”

“I trained half of you myself!” Stroud shouted. “Do not make me kill you to stop this madness!”

Within the rift, something let out a chilling screech. The Wardens slowly advanced, weapons drawn.

“Inquisitor!” Blackwall said urgently from behind Ciri.

“Wardens!” Ciri called out. “At every turn, we’ve asked your brothers and sisters to stand down. Those who listened, we’ve spared. We didn’t come here to destroy your order, simply to stop a vile ritual that benefits a darkspawn magister and his cultist followers. The Inquisition has seen what this magic does to your mages. And I know you have, too.”

A familiar Warden pushed forward. “She’s right,” Warden Chernoff said. “The mages – they’ve gone wrong. They don’t talk, they don’t laugh. They just look through you. They’re like puppets on a string.”

“Don’t let them sow doubt in your mind, Warden Chernoff,” Warden-Commander Clarel called down to him.

“Doubt is exactly what is called for right now,” Ciri snapped back. “ _Think_ , Warden-Commander! If even the smallest portion of you recognizes my words as true, then stop this!”

“I honor your bravery, my brothers and sisters,” Stroud added. “But this is not the way. You have been tricked.”

The Wardens turned to look back up at the landing for the Warden-Commander’s decision. She turned to Erimond, who hissed something at her, quiet and vehement. Slowly, then more firmly, Warden-Commander Clarel shook her head, replying just as softly.

Erimond snarled and spat back.

“You’ve always been a thorn in my master’s side, Inquisitor!” he said, raising his voice. He slammed the butt of his staff rhythmically against the stone floor. “You just can’t resist, can you? Well! Perhaps my master’s pet will put a stop to your interference!”

A loud, bestial screech broke the night sky as Erimond reached out with his hand. The elven woman’s corpse gave a jerk, and a globe of blood the size of a fist tore free with a wet squelch. Hawke swore and threw a barrier over their group, and Solas followed suit.

Reddish-black magic slammed into them in a wave, bowling them over with bruising force. Bones aching, ears ringing, Ciri got to her feet to see the rift crack to life and demons pour out of it. Warden warriors fought Warden mages. Inquisition soldiers fought demons. The corrupted dragon from Haven swooped overhead, screeching and spitting its strange red fire. And in the distance, she spotted Erimond’s white robe disappear around a corner, with Warden-Commander Clarel in pursuit.

“Go!” Owain urged her. “I’ll do what I can here!”

Ciri nodded and took off at a dead sprint, Hawke and Olgierd right on her heels. Solas, Stroud, and Blackwall weren’t far behind, and Varric brought up the rear. Past the chaos and up the stairs they went, only to be waylaid by a pair of shades as they rounded the corner.

Hawke jabbed out with her staff, and Olgierd flung a handful of fire. Ciri followed through with a heavy slash. And on they ran.

Blackwall cursed loudly as the dragon flew past, blowing fire into their path.

Ciri sped up once the dragon flew off again. The scent of the fire was acrid and strange – not unlike the smell of the Red Templars’ blood. She could almost feel the heat from the flagstones through her boots as she ran.

Up the stairs, dodging demons and fire, and down another long corridor, always too far behind Erimond and the Warden-Commander to help or hinder. Finally, finally, they rounded another corner to see Warden-Commander Clarel angrily stalking towards Erimond along an old stone arch, batting away his spells contemptuously. Ciri couldn't hear the words they exchanged and drew closer, her companions close behind.

Erimond said something that enraged Warden-Commander Clarel, and she lashed out with her staff, sending him flying a dozen yards back. She stalked over and replied to whatever he said to her with conviction.

Ciri flinched back as, out of nowhere, the dragon swooped down and landed heavily on the old arch to grab the Warden-Commander in its jaws. It flew to a nearby rooftop and shook her heavily, flinging her broken body at Ciri’s feet. Growling, almost chittering, it clambered back down to the stones to paw at Warden-Commander Clarel.

Olgierd and Hawke drew Ciri behind them as they all collectively took several steps back.

Warden-Commander Clarel dragged herself painfully across the stones as the dragon advanced. Ciri couldn’t hear what she was saying, but she saw her lips moving, and it seemed like she was repeating a saying of some sort. As the dragon hovered over her, its jaws agape, she rolled over and thrust a fistful of lightning at its chest.

It shrieked in pain, flailing wildly. The old stone arch broke beneath its throes, and it fell into darkness, taking Warden-Commander Clarel with it.

The mortar under Ciri’s feet gave an ominous crack, then crumbled. Stones gave way.

_“Run!”_

They pelted back toward the safety of the fortress, hearts pounding, throats tight with fear. The ground fell apart as they stepped on it.

Ciri glanced back to see Olgierd hauling Varric up and felt momentary relief. Then relief turned to panic as Stroud slipped over the edge. She darted back to catch his wrist and drag him back to safety.

“We’re not going to make it!” Hawke shouted as the arch began crumbling ahead of them.

“Ciri, _go!_ ” Olgierd snapped.

Ciri wasn’t going anywhere. She clenched her marked hand. _A skeleton key_. She’d thought she’d never need to use it that way. “Hold on tight, everyone!”

And as they all fell to certain death, the emerald green light of a rift enveloped them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Posting days are now Saturday, so I hope that works for everyone.
> 
> Thank you so much for your comments! I like knowing I've entertained you with an update.


	45. The Fade and Fears

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ciri and her companions fall into the Fade. An unexpected face meets them, and they face their deepest fears as they fight their way back to Adamant.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> beta-read by brightspot149. Thank you!

Ciri plummeted headlong, her heart in her throat. The stony gray ground sped toward her at a dizzying speed. Stomach churning, she pulled on her magic, desperate to do something, anything, to avert disaster.

Before she could risk teleporting, she came to a gentle stop inches from the ground. She reached out hesitantly to touch the harsh gray rock face.

_“Oof.”_

The last few inches fell away with an unceremonious drop. Ciri picked herself up off the ground and gazed around in curiosity and trepidation. Far above her head, the rift she’d opened snapped shut in a sickly green sky. Craggy boulders floated in the air, slowly spinning and bobbing in place. The whole area seemed wet, almost flooded in places. Wraiths drifted idly in the distance. They hadn’t noticed Ciri or her companions yet.

“I know I ignored Sebastian when he went on about the Maker’s embrace, but I don’t think he ever mentioned it looking like this,” Hawke joked shakily.

“We’re not dead, Hawke,” Stroud said. He turned a stern look on Ciri. “The Inquisitor opened a rift as we fell. We are in the Fade.”

“Better than falling to our deaths in the physical world,” Olgierd said. “Though I’d rather not stay if I can help it.”

Solas looked about in wonder, a small, delighted smile on his face. “This is extraordinary, _lethallin_. I never thought I might come here physically.”

“For good reason,” Blackwall said darkly. “The last time people walked the Fade, they started the Blight.”

"A good point," Varric said. "Chuckles? You're the expert here. Any idea how to get us out?"

Solas inclined his head in thought. “This is unlike any territory I’ve seen claimed by spirit or demon before. The being that holds this place is powerful. Some variety of fear, I would imagine. In order to leave, we may need to convince it to let us pass, or defeat it. _Lethallin_ , do you think you can create another rift from within the Fade?”

Ciri shook her head. “No.”

“Then we should seek out the one Clarel and Erimond had opened in the courtyard.”

Olgierd pointed to the rough-hewn stairs leading up to another level. “We’ll be better able to get our bearings up there.”

Blackwall cocked his head and held up a hand. “Hear that?”

Ciri did. Sounds of fighting came from beyond a half-melted looking pillar some ways away. A man’s voice grunted and exclaimed amidst the noises of a sword connecting with flesh. Olgierd stiffened.

“It can’t be.”

He turned and strode toward the ruckus, water sloshing around his ankles. Ciri followed him closely, the others trailing behind.

As they rounded the pillar, the man they’d heard let out a triumphant “Ha!” and struck down a shade with a saber dripping with ichor. He looked familiar to Ciri – the half-shaven dark brown hair and moss green silk robe of a Redanian noble were distinctive markers, but she knew him from somewhere. Then it came to her. She’d seen him in Redcliffe in the future, running to warn them of an attack.

This was Adventure, tall, broad, pale, and lightly freckled, smiling at them in good cheer.

“What are you doing here?” Olgierd demanded.

“Oh, that’s nice,” Adventure said, gracing Olgierd with an unimpressed eyebrow. “I followed you, as always. Got stuck in this mess some time ago. The demon who claimed this patch has its edges locked down tighter than a virgin’s petticoats. Better question, what are _you_ doing here?”

“It’s my doing,” Ciri said. “We were going to fall to our deaths. I opened a rift into the Fade to save us. Though I’m not certain I’ve done that.”

Adventure caught her hand and lightly kissed her knuckles, his light brown eyes intense. “You’re as stout of heart as any of the Free Company, and thrice as lovely. You’ve my thanks for saving this lout, my dear moon-kissed maiden.”

Olgierd cuffed him lightly across the back of the head. “She’s not one of your milkmaids.”

“Nay, I can see that plainly,” Adventure said. He looked Ciri up and down with admiring eyes.

Ciri pulled her hand away, fighting a smile despite the dire circumstances. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Adventure.”

“Oh, none of that,” Adventure dismissed. “Call me Vlodimir.”

“Vlodimir, then.”

Solas looked disapproving at that, but said instead, “What do you know about the demon who’s laid claim to this territory?”

“Dangerous bastard. Powerful. Fond of a good taunt,” Vlodimir said with a shrug of his broad shoulders. “I’m as in the dark as the lot of you. Though those wraiths struck me as odd. A hair too substantial. Don’t you think?”

Ciri squinted in the direction he pointed. The wraiths did seem brighter than usual. “Shall we investigate?”

“Gladly!” Vlodimir agreed.

Olgierd introduced him around quietly as they sloshed their way toward the wraiths. Stroud and Blackwall gave him wary greetings, but Hawke and Varric were friendlier.

“You were the one who helped us out in Crestwood,” Hawke said.

“That I was, my beauteous bird,” Vlodimir said cheerfully. “Quite the scrap we got into down in that old outpost. A lesser man might have been pulled through! Not old Vlodimir, though.” He flexed his arm and winked.

Hawke snorted. “Easy, big fellow. I’m not in the market for another man.”

“Hardly the time or place for flirting,” Blackwall said.

Solas spoke up, a censorious note in his voice. “Ad – _Vlodimir_. Do you speak to women so because of the human you choose to emulate, or because you were once a spirit of desire?”

Vlodimir scratched his chin in thought. “You raise a good question. As Desire, seduction was all about finding what a dreamer wished to be wooed with and making myself fit that mold. There’s something much more unfettered in my flirtations now. It’s freeing, not having to bend to anyone’s whims.”

“But have you not made yourself fit into another mold?” Solas asked. “Do you not feel that you deny your nature in taking on a human identity?”

“Ha!” Vlodimir threw back his head and laughed heartily. “I challenge you to find any man or beast who embodies desire or adventure more than Vlodimir von Everec. You’ll not succeed, for there isn’t any. I don’t deny my nature. I _revel_ in it.”

Whatever Solas had to say to that was lost as the wraiths caught sight of them. Ciri drew her sword and dodged left, narrowly avoiding a wave of corrosive gas. A gleeful shout rang out as Vlodimir threw himself at the wraiths, saber at the ready. Olgierd, shaking his head and chuckling, followed after him.

Varric and the mages took on the bulk of the fighting, staying out of range of the wraiths’ gas, though Olgierd and Vlodimir waded in without a care, slashing and cleaving through the insubstantial bodies with grace.

“Oh ho,” Vlodimir said as the final wraith dissolved under his blade. “This is passing strange.”

In place of the wraiths, four gleaming orbs of emerald light hung just above the ground, somehow both solid and gaseous all at once. They shifted and twisted as Ciri looked at them. Something about them seemed to beckon to her.

“Solas, what do you think these are?” she asked.

“I believe they are memories,” he told her. He walked to one and brushed his hand across its surface, and he pulled back, frowning slightly. “The magic is similar to mine, but not close enough that I can read them. I suggest you try.”

“Is it safe?”

“As safe as anything is in the Fade.”

Carefully, Ciri held her marked hand over one of the gleaming orbs. A spark leaped from her palm to its swirling surface, and a dark, foreboding voice filled the air.

_“BRING FORTH THE SACRIFICE.”_

She yanked her hand back as the orb vanished into her palm. “What was that?”

“If I had to guess, I’d say it was your memory,” Olgierd said. He gave her an encouraging nod. “Perhaps you’ll finally get some answers.”

She nodded back and moved to the next one, laying her hand on it with less hesitance. Again the connection sparked, and this time her voice echoed around them.

_“Release her!”_

“That’s what we heard at the Temple of Sacred Ashes,” Varric said. “Nothing new yet.”

Ciri touched a third, and the Divine’s voice rose into the air, desperate and frightened.

_“Why are you doing this? You, of all people?”_

Varric shook his head. “I stand corrected.”

She shot him a small smile and reached for the last one, only for her knees to buckle as a half-familiar scene began to play out around them. The Divine, suspended in the air by ominous red magic. Corypheus, holding aloft the corrupted Elvhen orb. And –

Ciri took a step back. Dull-eyed Grey Wardens flanked the Divine, directing the magic keeping her captive. She looked younger, middle-aged at most.

_“Why are you doing this?”_ Divine Justinia pleaded with the mages. _“You, of all people?”_

Nothing flickered across their blank faces.

_“KEEP THE SACRIFICE STILL,”_ Corypheus ordered the Wardens as he brought the glowing orb closer to Divine Justinia’s face.

_“Someone, help me!”_

Corypheus’ small, cold eyes glittered as the orb began to drag at the Divine’s life force. Her skin sagged and wrinkled, and she writhed against the magical bonds, pain etched on her rapidly aging face.

The door slammed open. Memory-Ciri stormed in, sword drawn. _“Release her!”_ she cried.

_“Run while you can!”_ Divine Justinia called to her. _“Warn them!”_

Anger flooded Corypheus’ face at the intrusion. _“WE HAVE AN INTRUDER,”_ he said, pointing at Memory-Ciri with a long, blackened finger. _“KILL HER. NOW.”_

And in his moment of distraction, Divine Justinia wrenched her arm free of the magic binding her and slapped the orb from his hand, sending it rolling across the floor to come to a stop at Memory-Ciri’s feet. Memory-Ciri snatched it up, then cried out in pain. She fell to her knees as foreign magic flooded her.

Corypheus shouted in rage and ran toward her, and magic flared out in a blinding wave of light. The scene went white, and Ciri blinked to see harsh gray stone and a green sky, and her companions’ stunned faces.

_That’s how I received this mark?_ That explained things far better than a Chantry folktale. Though they’d need to be quite careful in who they told once they were out of the Fade. Orlais’ opinion of her was only just beginning to recover. Learning it was accidental magic might sink the Inquisition’s efforts entirely.

And that poor, brave woman… Even half drained of life and in mortal peril, Divine Justinia managed to foil Corypheus’ plan. She was the hero of the tale. Not Ciri.

“I wasn’t the only one who saw that,” she surmised.

“We shared your vision,” Stroud said. He looked grim. “Your mark was not bestowed by the Maker. It came from that orb Corypheus used on the Divine.”

“In case you haven’t been paying attention, it’s the Chantry that’s been telling everyone I’m holy, not me,” Ciri retorted. 

“He must have intended that Anchor for himself,” Olgierd said. “Alexius called it a ‘stolen mark.’”

“And with the power we saw in the memory, he could have ripped open the Fade and entered it physically once more, as he did when he was human,” Solas said.

“Given the way he spoke at Haven, I think that’s likely,” Ciri agreed.

“We have more immediate problems,” Hawke said. “Or did you all miss the Grey Warden mages in the memory?”

Blackwall frowned. “Aye, I saw them.”

“Their actions led to her death,” Hawke said sharply.

“I’d assumed Corypheus had compromised them, as the mages at the ritual tower and Adamant were,” Stroud said.

“That’s how it looked to me,” Ciri said. “But Stroud, that means the Wardens were compromised long before Erimond offered his ‘help’ to Clarel. Who knows how long they’ve been vulnerable to his influence?”

Neither Blackwall nor Stroud had an answer to that. Ciri looked to Solas as a thought struck her.

“I don’t believe this was my memory,” she said quietly. “I wasn’t there for most of it. It _can’t_ have been mine. But the Divine – she was there. And she touched the orb, too. Perhaps I was able to unlock her memory somehow because she left an imprint on it.”

“If that was the case –” Solas broke off, looking frustrated. He took a breath and nodded. “Yes, you’re probably right.”

“Nice to think she’s still looking out for us,” Varric said. “We could use all the help we can get.”

With that, they began walking up the rough steps. In the far distance, hanging in the sky, the rift leading back to Adamant’s courtyard churned. Behind her, Varric struck up a conversation with Vlodimir, a note of keen interest in his voice.

“So, Vlodimir…”

“Yes, my good dwarf?”

“Are you _happy_ in the Fade? Just following us around, only seeing Red in dreams?”

“Ah, but such fights you get into!” Vlodimir countered. “And such excellent dreams! Racing on horseback through fields of shining grain, carousing all night in the city, drinking in the garden, stealing dumplings from the kitchen, singing and playing music loud enough to wake the dead –”

“Fair enough,” Varric said, chuckling.

“You’re remarkably complicated for a spirit,” Hawke said. “Most of the ones I’ve encountered are very straightforward about the virtues and vices they embody. You’re much more like a person.”

“We’re all people, my comely kestrel,” Vlodimir said, lightly chiding her.

The steps evened out into a wet landing. High, jagged walls enclosed the area, oppressively tall. They began to slosh their way forward.

“Yes, but still,” Hawke said. “You seem different.”

“Of course I’m different!” Vlodimir said with another wink. “You’ll meet none braver or bolder than I – or more virile.”

Blackwall and Varric laughed.

“He is a spirit of adventure who was once a spirit of desire, Hawke," Solas said. "His personality is based on Olgierd's memories of his brother. He is wholly unique."

They rounded a half-hidden corner to find weathered stairs almost worn away by nonexistent feet. At the bottom were two massive metal raven statues identical to those that sat in the main hall in Skyhold, though these were lit by an eerie green glow. Milling about before them were two shades.

“I suspect we’re on the right track,” Ciri said, and started forward, drawing _Gynvael_.

The shades swooped toward them, claws outstretched. Ciri lashed out with her blade, drawing ichor, and danced back as it swiped at her heavily. She feinted to the right, and it took the bait. She lunged at it straight on, scoring deep in its side. It died with a high, pained screech.

The other shade fell beneath Olgierd’s blade, and Vlodimir beamed with pride.

“Well struck! You’re as fierce as ever, I see.”

Olgierd shook his head and laughed under his breath. “Nay, I’m practically tame these days.”

They wandered on up the next set of weathered stairs. Vlodimir affected a sorrowful look and slung an arm over Olgierd’s shoulders.

“Many a fearsome man’s fallen afoul of that most vicious predator.”

“Vlod.”

“A gentle lady’s touch can tame even the deadliest of men.”

“Vlodimir.”

Vlodimir looked at Olgierd and winced. “Ah, still not going well? I told you, poetry, compliments, empty promises, and a pretty bauble or two –”

“Some things cannot be so easily forgiven, nor so quickly forgotten.” Olgierd gave Vlodimir’s arm a quick pat and shrugged it off lightly, ignoring the speculative looks coming from Blackwall, Varric, and Hawke.

As they reached the top of the stairs, a deep, darkly amused voice echoed through the air, sending shivers down Ciri’s spine.

_“AH, WE HAVE VISITORS. SOME SILLY LITTLE GIRL AND HER PLUCKY BAND OF FRIENDS COME TO STEAL BACK THE FEARS I SO KINDLY TOOK FROM HER IN HER HOUR OF NEED. YOU SHOULD HAVE THANKED ME AND LEFT THE BURDEN SAFELY IN MY HANDS, FORGOTTEN.”_

“Come down here and call me that to my face!” she challenged the voice, her hand tight around _Gynvael_ ’s hilt.

_“PAIN DOES NOT MAKE MORTALS STRONGER. IT’S A LIE THE WEAK TELL THEMSELVES TO FEEL BETTER ABOUT THEIR SUFFERING. YOU SHOULD KNOW THAT THE ONLY ONE WHO GROWS STRONGER ON YOUR FEARS IS_ ME _.”_

Hawke growled under her breath, glaring up at the still green sky of the Fade. “Where are you, you bastard?” she whispered.

_“BUT YOU ARE GUESTS HERE IN MY HOME, SO BY ALL MEANS, ALLOW ME TO RETURN WHAT YOU HAVE FORGOTTEN.”_

“I’d say that’s confirmation we’re dealing with a fear demon, Solas,” she said as the voice subsided.

“Yes, and a powerful one,” Solas said. “Nightmare, or perhaps Horror. Fear is a very old, very strong feeling. It predates love, compassion, pride...every emotion save that of desire,” he added with a nod to Vlodimir. “We should be wary. This demon will do anything in its power to weaken our resolve.”

“My resolve is strong enough,” Blackwall declared.

“Be certain,” Solas warned him, “for we’re in its territory. It can likely pry into our deepest fears and lay them bare for all to see.”

Blackwall blanched and swallowed hard. “Aye,” he said. “It’s strong enough.”

The stairs led straight down again, into a flooded open-air chamber. Rocky columns and half-melted pillars held up the green sky, and wraiths and shades drifted about just above the top of the water. Hawke and Solas swept their staves forward, Hawke making a small circular gesture, Solas jabbing.

The movements of the demons slowed to a crawl as lightning arced down from the sky to strike them, blindingly bright. As they shrieked and hissed in pain and anger, Ciri and the others rushed down the steps, weapons drawn.

They waded through knee-high water to strike at the wounded demons, graceless and encumbered in their attacks. Luckily, the wounded demons were likewise handicapped by Hawke’s spell, and the fight, clumsy as it was, managed to be mercifully brief.

“What do you think that is?” Hawke asked, gesturing to a strange metal contraption looming in the center of the chamber.

“It appears Tevinter in origin,” Solas said. “I would not wish to begin to guess at its purpose. Whatever it was used for originally, it must have evoked a great deal of fear to be reflected here.”

“Great!” Varric said with patently false cheer. “This place just gets better and better. Any more words of wisdom, Chuckles?”

“Don’t drop your guard,” Solas said simply.

“Right,” Varric muttered. “Shit.”

They sloshed up to the staircase at the other end of the chamber and headed up again. Ciri held _Gynvael_ in her hand, not bothering to sheathe her blade. Solas’ words filled her with caution. She would keep her guard up, as advised.

The stairs leveled out into an uneven gray outcropping, still slightly slick from the water. Rough, craggy walls lined their path, and another pair of the metal raven statues lit the way, leading them further down, further in.

“This place,” Hawke said as they started down again. “I think it has Kirkwall beat for staircases.”

“Is the physical Fade usually so strange?” Ciri asked Vlodimir. “This seems like a mad architect’s fever dream mixed with an inhospitable landscape.”

"The Fade is usually whatever a dreamer dreams it is, my silvery blossom," Vlodimir said. "Or it's whatever memories hold fast in a place, with spirits reenacting them and shaping the surroundings to suit. Like Ostagar, or Weisshaupt. This is the raw Fade. Horror, or Nightmare, or whatever it wants to call itself, shapes its surroundings by reflecting memories of fear, nothing more. Someone fled in a panic in the physical world down every staircase we travel, I’d bet my sword on it.”

Ciri looked behind her, then ahead. "I won't take that bet," she said. She hoped the people who'd fled in a panic had survived.

The jutting walls grew taller, more forbidding, their peaks jagged and bleak. The green sky seemed darker somehow, though Ciri feared it was a trick of her imagination. An eerie, familiar howl rose ahead of her, and Varric swore.

“Andraste’s ass, what’s _that?”_

Hounds of the Wild Hunt, jaws agape and small blue eyes gleaming, bounded toward them on grotesque, muscular limbs. And at their sides –

Ciri’s stomach dropped. Geralt, his face gray and his eyes lifeless. Coën, slack-jawed with blood dripping from the puncture wounds in his chest. Yennefer, battered and bruised in death. And Vesemir, broken and bloody, relentlessly advancing on her with his sword drawn.

Ciri froze in fear and despair for a heartbeat, and then she leaped forward, a strangled yell escaping her. Snarls filled the air as she slashed and dodged, terror fueling her anger. From behind her, fire and lightning flew through the air to lend her aid.

At last, they fell, and she turned back to her companions, her heart still racing. "Solas. _What was that?”_

“Smaller fear demons, feeding off the Nightmare,” he said calmly, though he too looked ever so slightly disturbed. “They reflect that which we fear the most.”

“So that’s why they looked like giant spiders,” Hawke said. “I thought I was seeing things for a moment.”

Ciri looked at her. Hawke’s smile had a brittle edge, and as their eyes met, it slipped, and Hawke looked away.

No, Hawke’s fear was worse than spiders.

“Spiders?” Blackwall echoed. He shuddered. “That’s not what I saw.”

Everyone but Vlodimir looked unsettled to Ciri’s eyes. Olgierd in particular looked grave, his lips a bloodless line and his knuckles white around the hilt of his sword.

“We keep moving,” she declared.

No one objected to her suggestion. As they walked past the green puddle that used to be the fear demons, the Nightmare’s voice rang out again, smug and amused.

_“AH, THERE’S NOTHING LIKE A GREY WARDEN, IS THERE, BLACKWALL? AND YOU ARE_ NOTHING _LIKE A GREY WARDEN.”_

“I’ll show you a Warden’s strength, beast,” Blackwall muttered, glaring up at the sky.

_“ONCE AGAIN, HAWKE IS IN DANGER BECAUSE OF YOU, VARRIC. YOU FOUND THE RED LYRIUM. YOU BROUGHT HAWKE HERE.”_

Varric gripped Bianca a bit tighter. “Just keep talking, Smiley. We’ll find you.”

At the base of the stairs, it spoke again. This time, it sounded different – harder, angrier, less smugly amused.

_“DIRTH MA, HARELLAN. MA BANAL ENASALIN. MAR SOLAS ENA MAR DIN.”_

_“Banal nadas,”_ Solas called back.

Ciri very carefully didn’t let her shoulders tense at the words the demon spoke. ‘ _Harellan._ ’ She’d heard that before, in her dreams. The shadowy figure she could never remember upon waking called someone close to her that, and insinuated they had terrible plans.

Solas had taught her some Elven. _‘‘Dirth ma_ ,' that meant ‘talk to me.’ ‘ _Banal_ ’ meant ‘nothing’ and _‘enasalin’_ meant ‘victory.’ _‘Ma_ ,' that was ‘your.’ _‘Solas_ ,' amusingly enough, meant ‘pride’ and ‘ _din_ ’ meant ‘dead.’

_‘Talk to me,_ harellan _. Your victory is nothing. Pride…something…dead?’_

She didn’t understand. What she did understand was that he’d responded to it.

_‘Banal nadas.’_ Nothing is...something.

She needed to know what _‘harellan’_ meant.

The endless stairs finally stopped at a narrow, mist-strewn corridor with wet, pitted rock walls. Strange things protruded from them – statues, perhaps, or monstrous egg sacs frozen in time. They proceeded forward cautiously, only to stiffen as an eerie howl broke the silence again.

Ciri reined in her fear and struck hard, half expecting to see skeletal helms rising behind the hounds and her family’s corpses. She whirled away and darted back to slash at a hound’s spiny back, icy blade meeting icy body. At her side, Olgierd fought with fire and saber, battering back something else with muted rage and desperation in his eyes.

The last one fell, and the Nightmare's voice called out again.

_“YOU LIE TO EVERYONE, HAWKE. EVEN TO YOUR BELOVED ANDERS. DO YOU FEAR HE’D BREAK IF HE KNEW HOW MANY HE REALLY KILLED THAT NIGHT? OR DO YOU FEAR HE’D LEAVE YOU FOR KEEPING THE TRUTH FROM HIM?”_

“Go _fuck_ yourself,” Hawke snarled.

The Nightmare laughed, dark and satisfied. _“YOU’RE A COWARD, HAWKE. HE’LL FIND OUT ONE DAY, AND YOU’LL BE ALONE. AS YOU’VE ALWAYS KNOWN YOU’D BE.”_

“Hey!” Varric said sharply, catching Hawke’s wrist. “Ignore the bastard. Anders will never leave you. He loves you too much.”

Hawke wrenched her wrist from Varric’s grip and stalked ahead, the set of her shoulders stiff with anger. Ciri watched her, pity rising in her chest. Her fierce defense of Anders, and her denial of the death toll, made much more sense now. She hoped Varric was right.

She looked to the side at Olgierd and Stroud. Both looked grim and wary, casting occasional glances up at the murky green sky above.

Ciri felt it, too. What terrible thing would the Nightmare say next? What would it say to her?

The misty corridor narrowed at a pulsing red cluster of crystals, taller and wider than the Iron Bull. Varric swore beneath his breath.

“Is this…real?” Ciri asked Solas. “This is just a reflection. Right?”

“Correct,” he said. Nonetheless, he appeared troubled by its presence.

Beyond the red lyrium cluster, the corridor opened out into a wide space, a rough shelf of rock that dropped into a water-filled basin dotted with a few tiny stone islets. Within the wet basin, wraiths and shades milled.

“Great,” Ciri muttered. “Come on.”

“Say no more!” Vlodimir said eagerly as he pushed past her. Hawke was close behind, her staff already moving.

With Hawke’s slowing spell cast again, the odds tilted in their favor once more, and they forded out into the water to slash at the sluggish demons, parrying claws and ducking slow waves of corrosive gas.

In the aftermath, more orbs of dense emerald gas hovered where the wraiths had been. She shot Vlodimir a questioning look, and he nodded to her in encouragement.

“Go on, snowdrop.”

She went to the closest one and laid her marked hand over it. A connection sparked instantly, and the Divine’s voice rang out over their heads.

_“Tell Leliana I’m sorry.”_

Ciri pulled her hand back, unsettled. This wasn’t from the Conclave. Would she finally learn how she and the Divine escaped the Fade? She moved to the next orb.

_“Tell them yourself!”_ Ciri’s voice snapped.

“This is getting interesting,” Varric said. “I take it back, Songbird. Provisionally. You can touch the creepy shit with your magic hand while we’re here.”

Ciri let out a small laugh and walked over to the third one, resting her hand above its shifting surface.

_“The demons!”_ Divine Justinia cried out.

Half hoping, half dreading, she went to the last one and reached out. As before, her knees buckled as the memory overwhelmed her. This time, though, it felt more real, truer. More hers.

Memory-Ciri clambered up a sheer rock face, the hounds of the Wild Hunt snapping at her feet. Above her, a frail Divine Justinia watched in worry, an open rift at her back. Memory-Ciri hauled herself over the ledge and cleaved the first hound’s neck open with her silver sword, kicking the other one clear off.

“We must go through!” she urged the Divine.

The Divine nodded, then her eyes widened in fear as she stared beyond Memory-Ciri. “The demons!”

Memory-Ciri whirled around. Half a dozen hounds clambered over the edge, slavering and growling.

“Go!” the Divine ordered her. “Tell Leliana I’m sorry. Tell them all what happened here.”

“Tell them yourself!” Memory-Ciri snapped, and she grabbed the Divine unceremoniously around the middle.

With a mighty leap, Memory-Ciri threw them both through the rift. The memory winked out as the rift flared bright, then closed.

“So, it was as straightforward as it seemed,” Solas said. “You kept the Divine alive in the face of great danger.”

“And she rewarded me with a title that was neither wanted nor deserved,” Ciri sighed.

Blackwall spoke up for the first time since the Nightmare had taunted him. “Maker’s balls,” he said. “What were those demons chasing you?”

“Dogs,” Ciri said shortly.

Varric whistled, long and low. “Some dogs.”

_“CIRILLA,”_ the Nightmare called to her, self-satisfied and darkly entertained. _“DO YOU REALLY THINK YOUR FATHER BELIEVED YOU DIED? HE’LL FIND YOU, CIRILLA. HE HAS PLANS FOR YOU.”_

“ _Fuck_ his plans,” Ciri spat.

Hawke looked past her and swore as the Nightmare laughed. “Inquisitor!”

A baying howl filled the air as a hound raced around the corner, followed closely by three more. Lambert and Eskel’s corpses came in their wake, with dead, sunken eyes and half-rotten cheeks. Ciri grasped _Gynvael_ and readied herself.

The hounds flung themselves at them, eyes gleaming and jaws agape. One tried to sink its teeth into Ciri’s throat, and she pirouetted out of range, darting back in to slash at its muscular neck. Hawke and Solas tossed spells crackling with power. Blackwall and Stroud battered them back with shields to hack at them from safety. Olgierd and Vlodimir placed themselves in the thick of the fighting, slashing and cleaving, while Varric shot at the demons from a distance.

“Is everyone unhurt?” Ciri asked as Eskel’s corpse dissolved into green ichor and muck.

Olgierd held up a hand. “I could use a potion. One of them nicked my arm.”

Ciri looked at the wound in question as Solas passed him an elfroot potion. The cut went straight through his enchanted robe, a thin, neat line that bled heavily. No hound had done that. He shook his head at her raised eyebrows.

“Don’t pry, dear. You know my fears.”

She could guess, at least. “Let’s go on.”

They waded past the islets into a narrow channel lined with heavy gray boulders. Olgierd slipped the empty potion bottle into his belt pouch and flexed his arm carefully as the bleeding slowed to a trickle.

_“WARDEN STROUD. HOW MUST IT FEEL TO DEVOTE YOUR WHOLE LIFE TO THE WARDENS, ONLY TO WATCH THEM FALL? OR WORSE, TO KNOW THAT YOU WERE RESPONSIBLE FOR THEIR DESTRUCTION? WHEN THE NEXT BLIGHT COMES, WILL THEY CURSE YOUR NAME?”_

“If the Wardens fall, it won’t be your doing,” Ciri told Stroud. “That’s nonsense. You’re doing your utmost to save the order.”

Stroud glared up at the sky. “Maker willing, we will end this wretched beast.”

The walls grew higher, craggier. One of the unnerving Ferelden statues of a kneeling, faceless man gripping his head appeared against the wall, green fire at its base. A strange demon ran out from around the bend, chittering loudly. Ciri caught a good look at it – a matted ruff, a scaly body, powerful hind legs and smaller forelimbs, and long, strong jaws – and braced for its attack.

Vlodimir intercepted it, swinging out hard with his saber. The demon dropped into the water, turning it a virulent green at his feet.

“Gibbering horrors,” Vlodimir said. “Simple things. There’s never just one of them.”

On they went, past a glowing, humming cluster of red lyrium crystals. Ciri edged around it carefully. Even if it was just a reflection, it still made her uneasy. Triss’ words about lyrium being somewhat alive were worrisome, and the red kind was ten times worse.

_“SHE WON’T FORGIVE YOU,”_ the Nightmare taunted Olgierd. _“THE MAN OF GLASS WAS RIGHT. YOU’RE A DEGENERATE MONSTER, VON EVEREC, AND YOU ALWAYS WILL BE.”_

Olgierd just nodded silently and kept walking. Vlodimir growled at the sky, his hand on the hilt of his saber.

“Besmirch the character of the best man I know? Say it again, you overgrown spirit of timidity, and do it properly, facing me with your sword in your hand.”

“Vlod,” Olgierd sighed, “how did my brother die?”

“That’s beside the point,” Vlodimir huffed.

“That is the point. Nightmare’s not wrong on this count.”

“Damn it, _no!”_ Ciri cried. “That’s wrong, it’s a lie! Don’t listen to it, you…you…”

“And what am I, then?” he asked her.

“You’re my _friend_ , you ass!”

A half-smile tugged at the corner of Olgierd’s mouth, reluctant amusement lighting his eyes. “You’ve terrible taste in friends.”

“My taste in friends is beyond reproach,” she corrected him. “Stop letting a demon get in your head.”

His half-smile turned into a small but genuine one. “As my friend commands.”

Vlodimir slapped him heartily between his shoulders. “Listen to yon argent nymph, brother. She’s far wiser than you.”

Ciri shook her head at Vlodimir, smiling a bit herself, and walked on, her companions at her side. Above them, the Nightmare’s voice boomed out again, an edge of frustration coloring its words.

_“DO YOU THINK YOU CAN FIGHT_ ME _? I AM YOUR EVERY FEAR COME TO LIFE! I AM THE VEILED HAND OF CORYPHEUS HIMSELF! THE DEMON ARMY YOU FEAR?_ I _COMMAND IT! THEY ARE BOUND ALL THROUGH ME!”_

“Well,” Hawke said, baring her teeth in a fierce grin. “If we weren’t planning on killing it before…”

“Will that work?” Ciri asked Solas. She looked to Vlodimir as well. “If we kill the Nightmare, will it free the Warden mages?”

“With nothing tying the Warden mages to Corypheus, they’ll be free to regret their actions at their leisure,” Solas said. “It will work.”

“The mages are not themselves,” Stroud argued. “Their minds are not their own!”

“Their minds were clear enough before they slit the throats of their fellow Wardens,” Hawke retorted. “If my brother had been at Adamant, would his neck have been next in line?”

“That’s enough,” Ciri interrupted. “We’ll decide what to do once we get out of here and the Wardens are free again.”

She looked ahead to where the path split. On the left, worn stairs led upward. On the right, rock and dirt sloped down toward a wide plain filled with jagged stone outcroppings. Above the plain, enormous broken boulders hovered.

“Left or right?” she asked her companions.

Varric dug a sovereign from his belt pouch and flipped it in the air, catching it and slapping it on the back of his palm. “Right.”

“Down it is.”

They followed the steep, winding path downward, shooting cautious glances up at the boulders slowly spinning above their heads. As they got closer to the bottom, a faint light began to glint off part of the plain, and Ciri realized she was staring at a wide, shallow lake butting up against a gray shore. She wondered if all this water was a reflection of the physical world, too – or if the massive rift beneath the lake in Crestwood had somehow played a role in flooding the Fade.

Two gangly terror demons stalked the uneven ground below, kept company by a pair of drifting wraiths. Solas swept his staff out, and lightning shot down to strike all four squarely. As the terror demons shrieked in pain and anger, Hawke and Varric were close behind with spells and crossbow bolts. Olgierd lobbed balls of fire from a distance.

The demons fell without ever getting within sword range. They descended the rest of the way down to the misshapen ground. It rose and fell strangely beneath their feet, making the crossing hazardous. They stuck close to the odd shoreline, avoiding the jutting rocks and the roaming horrors they could spy in the far distance up against the high, rocky wall.

“There’s a spirit in the Inquisition, you know,” Hawke said to Vlodimir. “He’s very like you, in that he seems more real than most spirits, but he’s a bit…strange. He reads people’s thoughts.”

“Curiosity?” Vlodimir guessed. “Empathy?”

“Compassion,” Solas told him.

“And he doesn’t mind all the fighting?”

“He wants to help,” Ciri said.

Vlodimir considered that for a moment and shrugged. “Seems an odd fit, but anything called ‘the Inquisition’ could likely use a bit of compassion.”

“Why don’t you leave with us?” Varric asked.

Vlodimir looked between Varric and Olgierd. “Can’t say I’ve considered it before. Leave the Fade?”

“You’d be welcome,” Olgierd said with a small smile.

A wide grin broke across Vlodimir’s face. “Now _that’s_ a worthy adventure! Leave the Fade! Very well, I’ll come with you, brother. The von Everecs ride again.”

“Poor Josephine,” Ciri said, shaking her head. “She’ll have to find some way to resurrect you from your noble death in Ferelden fighting darkspawn.”

Olgierd winced. “Poor Josephine indeed. Perhaps we can say he suffered a blow to the head and lost his memories for a decade.”

“And we found him at Adamant?” Solas asked, his voice thick with skepticism.

Hawke waved a dismissive hand at him. “We can work out the details later.”

Up ahead, a small pack of horrors clustered around the entrance to a little fenced-in area. Just beyond them, a despair demon swooped about slowly, clusters of ice crystals scattering in its wake.

“Shall we investigate?” Ciri asked.

Blackwall frowned. “It looks like a cemetery. It could be a trap. More taunts from the Nightmare.”

“Our graves?” Varric wondered. He grimaced. “Great. It’s going to bug me for ages if I don’t see what this asshole put on my headstone.”

Ciri felt the same terrible curiosity. “Then let’s take a look, but be careful.”

The horrors broke off from the entrance to the cemetery at their approach, yipping and chittering as they swarmed their group. One lunged at Ciri, and she slashed at it, cutting it down with a high-pitched yelp. The temperature dropped precipitously. Ciri whirled from the fallen horror to see the despair demon abandon the headstones and float over. It covered them with tiny shards of ice as it screamed hoarsely.

Olgierd drew his saber back and flung a whip-like line of fire through the air. It coiled around the demon, burning and smoldering, drawing loud, pained screeches from its gaping jaws. Solas took advantage of its distraction and cast one of his powerful green spells, pummeling it down against the rutted earth.

Blackwall dispatched the last horror and sheathed his sword. “Let’s see what trick this Nightmare has for us.”

The graveyard was small and bleak, with only seven headstones. One for each of them, Vlodimir excepted, Ciri supposed. She took only quick glances at the epitaphs as she searched for her own, feeling uncomfortably voyeuristic. Still, those brief looks seared the words into her mind.

_‘Jean-Marc Stroud – Futility’_

_‘Varric Tethras – Becoming His Parents’_

_‘‘Gordon Blackwall’ – Himself’_

_‘Solas – Dying Alone’_

_‘Marian Hawke – Losing Her Loved Ones’_

_‘Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon – Losing Her Family’_

Ciri and Hawke’s eyes met above the gravestones in perfect understanding. A little way away, Olgierd stood in front of a grave she hadn’t seen yet.

“Ah,” he said quietly.

She went to his side and looked down at his epitaph. _‘Olgierd von Everec – Gaunter O’Dimm.’_ She blinked, and it changed. _‘Olgierd von Everec – Himself.’_

_‘Gaunter O’Dimm’_

_‘Himself’_

“In fairness, I’d rate them equally,” he said, his voice still quiet. He turned from the grave. “Come. We’ve a demon to kill.”

Ciri followed him out of the little graveyard, cursing herself for indulging her and Varric’s curiosity. This place was affecting him worse than the others. His current relationship troubles with Josephine were likely not helping matters, either.

They climbed a short flight of rough-hewn stairs just past the graveyard. The murky green sky seemed to darken further, and Ciri tightened her grip on _Gynvael_ ’s hilt. They were nearing the end. She could feel it.

The ground trembled slightly underfoot, and something roared ahead. Ciri took a steadying breath at the sight of the massive pride demon stomping about, shedding sparks of lightning as it went.

“Careful,” she warned the others.

Solas nodded and tossed a barrier over everyone. Hawke thrust her staff forward to cast her slowing spell. As its movements slowed dramatically, the warriors raced up the stairs to attack. Its heavy, armored limbs were easy to dodge, and they surrounded it, hewing and cleaving into the gaps in the thick plates.

Blackwall cursed as a rope of lightning caught his wrist. The demon laughed, painfully slowly, and raised its arm to do it again. Ciri darted behind it and thrust _Gynvael_ between two armored plates, shoving with all her might.

It roared and fell to its knees. With a last burst of lightning, it dissolved into green ichor.

“Are you alright?” she asked Blackwall.

He shook out his arm with a wince. “I’ll manage.”

“Through there, you think?” Hawke asked. She pointed to a dim passageway between two more of the unsettling faceless statues lit by green fire. With the pride demon dead, the path was clear.

“There’s only one way to find out,” Ciri said. “Let’s go.”

The green sky disappeared entirely as they passed the statues. The passageway felt oppressive, a grim, narrow tunnel with shallow puddles of water and clusters of red lyrium jutting from the walls. It seemed to go on forever. Finally, a faint light appeared from between another pair of statues.

“The rift!” Hawke called out as she drew ahead. “I can see it. We’re almost there.”

“Yeah, but guess what else I can see,” Varric said.

Ciri almost missed a step at the sight of the gargantuan white spider the size of Skyhold’s main hall looming just beyond the passage. It blinked its dozens of milky white eyes at them and flared its giant fangs with a rattling hiss.

She reached for her agate pendant and hesitated. Alzur’s Thunder would likely not do more than anger such a massive demon. Even if they all fought it together, there would be casualties – many casualties. They were well and truly trapped by that thing.

“Well.” Vlodimir sounded eerily calm. “Looks like I’ll not be going with you after all.”

“That’s not an option,” Olgierd snapped.

“You’ll not survive that,” Vlodimir said. “I’m the only one who might.”

“Not a chance.”

Vlodimir grasped Olgierd by the shoulders and shook him lightly. “You’ll get out of here and you’ll make up with your lady. Read her some poetry. Marry her. Live a good, long life.”

“Vlod.” Olgierd’s voice was raw. “I can’t lose you again.”

“Keep an eye on your dreams,” Vlodimir said gently. “I’ll come back. Ciri? Don’t let him do anything stupid.”

And he shoved Olgierd into Ciri and Solas’ arms and ran out, sword in hand. With each step he took, he seemed to change, growing taller, lovelier. His pale skin deepened to a beautiful shade of lilac. His shaven head on either side of his long lock of hair grew curling, jeweled horns. His silk robe shimmered with unnameable colors and his saber flashed brightly.

Ciri and Solas strained to hold Olgierd back as he fought to free himself. “Damn you both – release me! _Ciri!_ ”

Ciri held him tight, tears stinging her eyes. “No.”

Vlodimir yelled as he charged the spider, the cry echoing through the passage. The spider demon hissed back. He swung his sword at its leg, and Ciri watched in agony, not daring to look away.

There was a blinding flash of light and a deafening thunderclap. When she could blink the spots from her vision, neither the spider demon nor Vlodimir were there.

Olgierd slumped in Ciri’s hold. “Let go,” he said again, his voice dull.

“I’m so sorry,” Ciri whispered as she released him.

He pressed his lips together and rested his hand on her shoulder, giving her a wordless squeeze.

“As am I,” Solas said solemnly. “It is apparent you shared a true bond. I apologize for misjudging that.”

Olgierd nodded to him, still at a loss for words.

“Shit, Red,” Varric said as regret crossed his face. “I liked him. He was –”

“Genuine,” Hawke said, her voice soft. “A good spirit. A good man.”

He’d saved them. And it only cost Olgierd his happiness and Vlodimir his life. They stood in silence for a long moment, Olgierd’s hand a damning weight on her shoulder. This was her fault. If only she’d left him behind.

“Hate to be the one to say it, but we’re not through yet,” Blackwall said at last. He pointed past the opening. “There. I bet that’s the bastard that’s been taunting us.”

Ciri looked. A tall, humanoid demon hovered just off the ground in the pit beyond the passageway. It appeared strangely spider-like to her eyes. Four spindly black legs stuck out from behind its back, and an eyeless cowl covered half its face that looked like the abdomen of a spider, with four more legs dangling down in front of its bare chest.

She cleared her throat to rid it of the lump and answered him reluctantly. “If we kill that, then we can free the Wardens and leave.”

Olgierd’s hand fell from her shoulder to drop to the hilt of his saber. _“Good.”_

They left the questionable safety of the passageway and descended into the pit, weapons drawn. The Nightmare bared its teeth at them and raised its arms, and howling filled the air as hounds of the Wild Hunt pelted into the pit.

_“YOU CANNOT STAND AGAINST ME!”_

Ciri cut down a snarling hound and kicked another in its slavering jaws. She glanced around wildly. The damnable Nightmare had used the distraction to disappear.

“Find it!” she called out above the fray.

A gray-faced Geralt caught her blade with his, and she broke away, feinting and darting back in to strike at his side. The demon had none of her father’s grace or instincts, but the sight of her sword slicing into him brought tears to her eyes.

_“YOU ARE NOTHING!”_

Another hound lunged for her and yelped as it caught fire. Olgierd nodded to her as he struck out at his own foe.

_“I GROW FAT ON YOUR FEAR!”_

“There!” Varric called back. A twang from Bianca’s crossbow accompanied his words.

Ciri dashed across the pit to strike at the Nightmare, fury and rage lending her tired arms strength. Stroud and Olgierd followed her. The three of them slashed at it as it summoned more fear demons with terribly familiar faces, harrying it with all they had.

_“YOU WILL DIE IN AGONY!”_

“Better than you have tried,” Olgierd sneered, and he shoved his saber through the Nightmare’s chest, wrenching it free with a violent jerk.

A noiseless wheeze escaped its mouth as it slid off Olgierd’s saber to the watery floor of the pit at their feet. Its form held for a breathless second, then dissolved, leaving behind nothing but ichor and muck.

The demons fighting the others turned tail and fled at the Nightmare’s demise. They stood in the pit for a moment, just catching their breath as the water bled green around their ankles. Then Hawke stirred.

“We should hurry. Maker knows what’s been happening at Adamant while we’ve been here.”

They clambered out of the pit and made for the rift. It flared bright and active just ahead of them, and they broke into a tired jog as they drew closer. Blackwall jumped through first, then Varric and Solas. Hawke and Stroud followed next.

Olgierd looked back in the direction they came, pain in his eyes.

“He said to look for him in dreams,” Ciri reminded him softly.

“He did.” Olgierd sighed and jumped through the rift.

Ciri threw herself in last. She could feel the change instantly, as the still, oppressive air of the Nightmare’s territory changed to a cool, fresh breeze. She landed on her feet and turned to face the rift, raising her hand to forge a connection. It sparked to life instantly, and she willed it shut for good.

The chaos that had reigned when she’d last seen the courtyard was nowhere to be found. The Warden mages stood apart, quiet and shamefaced. Someone was throwing up in a corner. Puddles of green ooze covered the flagstones. Warden warriors and Inquisition soldiers stood shoulder to shoulder, staring up at Ciri as if she held all the answers.

Owain pushed through the crowd, relief written across his face. “Thank the Maker,” he said with quiet vehemence as he looked her up and down. Louder, he added, “The Warden mages have stood down. What would you like done with them?”

Ciri shoved down her lingering turmoil and glanced at Stroud. “This was beyond foolish, though I respect what motivated them. Enough lives were lost here tonight due to treachery and short-sightedness. I’ll not add to that count with exile and executions.”

“Your Worship?” a Grey Warden asked, hope and trepidation warring on her face.

“It’s not my place to decide what to do with the Grey Wardens,” Ciri said. “I’ll leave that to Warden Stroud, who fought so diligently to save the order from itself and from Corypheus.”

“Inquisitor,” Stroud said with a shallow bow. “The Grey Wardens would be honored to assist you in your efforts against Corypheus and his followers. They nearly destroyed us. Allow us to return the favor.”

“Gladly, though I’ll not send your brothers and sisters against Corypheus or blood mages,” Ciri said. 

“That’s probably for the best,” Owain agreed. “We’ll coordinate with their people to work out where to send them. If you’re certain, then we won’t take anyone into custody for this travesty.”

Ciri wasn’t certain at all, but she squared her shoulders and nodded. “I am. It’s been an honor, Warden Stroud.”

“The honor has been mine.” Stroud bowed to her again. “I’ll need to make my report to the First Warden. Weisshaupt must know what has happened here. Take care, Inquisitor. I wish you well.”

He disappeared into the crowd. A soldier spoke up as he left, a streak of ash on her helmet and a deep scratch marring her mail.

“Inquisitor, we captured the mage what started all this. That Erimond. You want us to take him back to Skyhold for judgment?”

Ciri froze for the barest moment, then scanned the crowd. A broad-brimmed, raggedy hat caught her eye, and she called out. “Cole. Is there anything good in Erimond? Any shred of decency, any scrap of remorse?”

“No,” Cole said plainly. “He’s an arsehole.”

Ciri looked at the soldier and shook her head. “Give him to the Wardens.”

Solas frowned, but the Wardens murmured in appreciation, and a grim smile crossed Olgierd’s face. _There_. _Let that be the last of it._

She walked into the crowd, letting her hand sneak out to surreptitiously squeeze Owain’s briefly, and she pushed through to start the long walk back to the gates. Hawke and Olgierd fell into step beside her.

“I should leave as well,” Hawke said. “Anders and I agreed I’d only help with the Wardens. I shouldn’t have left him on his own for so long.”

“Bring him to Skyhold,” Ciri said quietly. “I’ll extend temporary amnesty for the visit. Cullen will stay away.”

Hawke gave her a suspicious look. “Why?”

“Solas and I think we can help him – help Justice. Separate them. And Olgierd knows magic that’s different from most.”

“Volunteering me for something?” Olgierd asked, matching their quiet tone.

“Curing an abomination,” Ciri told him. “Saving two people.”

“Hm.”

Hawke was silent for several long minutes as they walked back through the broken and bloodied fortress. Finally, with the damaged gates in sight, she spoke again.

“We’ll see.”

Campfires flickered on the dark horizon. Ciri yawned, her weariness catching up to her. Her bedroll beckoned. She looked up at Olgierd. Exhaustion wrote lines across his face and etched purplish circles beneath his eyes.

“It’s been a long day,” she said. “I’m more than ready to get some sleep, if I can.”

He smiled at her faintly, the expression not quite making it up to his eyes. “Think I’ll stay up and watch the stars for a while.”

It was her turn to squeeze his shoulder silently as apologies and platitudes caught and tangled in her throat.

_I never should have brought you to Adamant. I’m so sorry. For everything_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really appreciate your feedback! I like knowing I've entertained you with an update.


	46. Dragons and Rats

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ciri takes a group out to finally deal with the Abyssal High Dragon near Griffon Wing Keep. Later, she talks about her bandit days with Owain and has another dream of the mysterious being with Avallac'h's face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> beta-read by brightspot149. Thank you!

The weary army seemed to regain its vigor as Griffon Wing Keep came into view. Owain looked over at Ciri from atop his sturdy bay gelding and grinned. “Baths tonight. Beds, even.”

“Oh, that sounds marvelous,” Ciri sighed. “Will you camp with the soldiers, or will I see you in the keep?”

He gently directed his gelding closer to Zephyr and lowered his voice. “You’ll see me in your rooms, if you like.”

“I would like that,” she said softly.

They hadn’t had time alone together since they’d left Skyhold. An army camp had little to offer in the way of privacy, and in the immediate aftermath of her fall into the Fade, she hadn’t been in much of a mood for intimacy. Now, though, with the promise of a bath and a real bed ahead of her, the thought appealed greatly.

His reply to her was lost as they both caught sight of a rapidly approaching dust cloud. Owain straightened in his saddle and shaded his eyes to peer out at it.

“It looks like the mercenaries took delivery of the nuggalopes,” he said with a laugh.

Sure enough, the dust parted to reveal a massive blue-gray nuggalope barreling towards them, an equally large rider astride its back. Cries of alarm turned to shouts of greeting as the front ranks of the army reined in their mounts to await the rider.

Herah Adaar came to a thundering halt in front of Ciri. “Inquisitor.”

“Is there something amiss at the keep?” Ciri asked.

“What? No, everything’s fine. Sata-Kas spotted you coming. We’re getting everything ready for your arrival.” Her eyes roved over the army in front of her. “There’s room in the keep for you and three others, seven others if you double up on the rooms. Our food won’t be much better than whatever travel rations you’ve been eating, but there’s fresh water.”

Herah was the Valo-Kas mercenaries’ logistics officer, Ciri suddenly remembered. She gave her a firm nod. “We’ll work out who will stay in the keep later. Would you like us to follow you back so you can show our officers where the tents should be set up?”

“I think you’d better,” Herah said.

Owain and Ciri separated to ride on either side of Herah’s enormous nuggalope as the army slowly got underway again. Matter-of-factly, the mercenary began to fill them in on all that had happened since Ciri had left the Western Approach for Skyhold nearly a month and a half back. The White Claw raiders had been driven utterly from the region, she reported, and not only had they thoroughly eradicated the Venatori’s presence, but they’d freed six more slaves and sent them on their way. Darkspawn were still present near the old Tevinter prison, but they were far less of a problem than before.

“The nuggalopes help,” Herah said, patting her mount between its long, twitching ears. “We can cover ten times the area in the same amount of time. Shokrakar’s giving your Inquisition a discount on our services until we’ve paid back the cost of the mounts we’re buying from you.”

That would help recoup expenses somewhat. “And how are you liking them?”

Herah smirked a little. “He’s gray, I’m gray. Horns, hands. Big. We’re practically family. Bulwark and I get along great.”

“Better not say that where an Orlesian can hear you,” Owain said half-jokingly. “That’s the same logic Duke Gaspard used to have academics at the University of Orlais write papers relating elves to rabbits to justify hunting them.”

“Are any of the contenders to the throne even halfway decent people?” Ciri asked in dismay.

“Halfway? Probably not,” Herah said. “There’s only the least bad person for the job.”

“Who do you think that is?” Owain asked her.

“You’d have to pay me extra to get involved in politics. I’m not stupid enough to stick my nose in that shitshow.”

“Fair enough,” Owain said. He looked past Herah to Ciri and added in amusement, “Maybe we should do away with the lot of them and put Delphine on the throne.”

Ciri stifled laughter. “She could hardly be worse.”

“Speaking of shitshows,” Herah said.

“Oh, _wonderful_ segue,” Ciri interrupted. She knew something had to be amiss.

Herah flashed her a brief smile. “The little professor, Frederic, showed up at the keep this morning. Said we can toss the bait. The high dragon dug out a nest overnight. It looks like she’s getting ready to start breeding. He said if his observations hold true, we should start hearing her mating calls this afternoon. No need for bait because she’s stationary, but –”

“But she’ll draw in drakes, and then have dragonlings,” Owain finished.

“She wasn’t much of a nuisance on her own,” Herah said. “But a nesting high dragon with a mate and offspring will make it a lot harder to hold this position.”

“Are high dragons covered by your contract?” Ciri asked.

“Shokrakar will send us up against just about anything,” Herah said with a shrug. “Demons, darkspawn, giants, bandits, other merc bands. But we took a vote after the last high dragon we tangled with killed Ataash and sent Kost into early retirement. No dragons without triple the pay. Too dangerous.”

And they couldn’t afford that, not after buying the nuggalope bait in Val Royeaux.

“We’ll put together a hunting party when we get to the keep,” Ciri said. “Though I’m not sure who’ll want to go off to fight a dragon when there’s food and rest to be had.”

“If you’re looking for volunteers, I’ll go with you,” Owain told her.

“Unless Cullen decides otherwise,” Ciri reminded him. “You’re still his subordinate.”

“I wouldn’t be too worried.” Owain glanced down the column several riders away to where a tired-looking Cullen rode astride his charger. “We’re good at staying out of each other’s way.”

She hadn’t asked Owain’s opinion on the recent poor turn Cullen’s relationship had taken with Evelyn, though she could guess how he felt quite easily. And as much as she would like it if everyone in the Inquisition would simply get along, she knew better than to expect it. Some people just weren’t destined to be friends.

“It’s too bad Hawke left,” Ciri said instead. “She enjoyed fighting that dragon in Crestwood.”

“There’s always the Iron Bull,” Owain suggested. Sympathy filled his eyes, and he added, “And I suspect Olgierd will want the distraction.”

“I’ll ask him,” Ciri said quietly.

He was likely right. Each morning, the sunrise brought with it a slightly sadder, slightly grimmer Olgierd, nearly as melancholy as the night she’d met him. To her intense shame, he didn’t blame her at all for Vlodimir’s loss, though the spirit would still live had she just left Olgierd behind for once.

“And then where would you be, hm?” Olgierd had asked her the morning after the siege. “Hush, and stop apologizing. He saved your life. Don’t take that from him.”

Another lost to save her. She wouldn’t denigrate the sacrifice. But she bitterly regretted the cost.

Herah cleared her throat. “The Iron Bull? Is it true he’s Qunari?”

"Where did you hear that?" Ciri asked.

“Shit,” Herah muttered. “Guess it’s true. Look, Inquisitor, it’s your keep. But we’re Vashoth. Some of us are Tal-Vashoth. You bring a Qunari into our midst, and there’s going to be trouble.”

“I’ll tell him to mind himself,” Ciri told her.

“Him minding himself isn’t all of it,” Herah said. “Our Tal-Vashoth members will pick a fight with him. Especially Taarlok and Hissra. Shokrakar’s got more self-control than that, I think, but on the other hand, she might deck him if he shows his face. Just – you want things peaceful? Keep him out of Griffon Wing Keep. Your Worship.”

Ciri blinked at her. Taarlok? He was the most level-headed member of the mercenary company they had. If _he’d_ pick a fight with the Iron Bull, she’d better take Herah’s words to heart.

“Understood,” she said. “Thank you for the warning.”

Herah nodded and flicked Bulwark’s reins. “Hurry up, Inquisitor. You’ll want to deal with the dragon before it starts its mating cries. The professor says it can be heard for miles.”

Ciri held in a groan and nudged Zephyr’s sides, spurring her into a trot. “Something to look forward to, then.”

Dragon hunting. Again. And she’d been so certain she’d managed to avoid it this time.

* * *

The tents were still being erected when the hunting party assembled outside Griffon Wing Keep’s gates. Ciri looked over her volunteers and felt her worry recede slightly. She’d taken on the dragon in Crestwood with only five others, though that had been a grueling fight. Including Owain, she had five volunteers again: the Iron Bull, who wore an eager, almost bloodthirsty grin; Sera, who exuded a manic cheerfulness as she bounced from foot to foot; Vivienne, who appeared as calm and regal as ever; and Olgierd, who’d agreed swiftly, the circles beneath his eyes still dark and bruise-purple.

Ciri gave Olgierd a questioning look, and he shook his head silently. Still no sign of Vlodimir in his dreams.

 _Damn it all_.

She pushed down the feeling of guilt as it rose once again and addressed her companions and Owain. “Professor Frederic de Serault says the high dragon’s nest is south of here and a bit west, dug into some old pre-Blight ruins. We won’t be able to miss it, apparently.”

“He have any intelligence to offer on it?” the Iron Bull asked. “Vulnerabilities? Tactics?”

“The professor’s out here studying its food preferences and flight patterns,” Ciri said dryly. “It likes gurn, if you’re interested. He doesn’t have any tactical advice to offer, other than a request that we take notes on its behavior while we fight it. He did mention that it’s unlike the dragon in Crestwood in that it breathes fire, not lightning.”

“Vulnerable to cold, then,” Owain said with a nod. “Enchanter Vivienne, would you mind enchanting our weapons?”

Vivienne aimed a gracious smile at him. “Not at all, Knight-Lieutenant. It’s good of you to think of it.”

Ciri hid her own smile at the strange blend of frustration and amusement that washed over Owain’s face at Vivienne’s words.

“I’m not a Templar anymore, Enchanter Vivienne,” he said politely.

“A pity,” Vivienne said. “You were clearly one of the competent ones.”

Sera groaned theatrically and rolled her eyes. “Mage stuff. Templar stuff. _Boring_. Can we go fight the dragon now?”

“I suppose we could at that,” Olgierd said, smiling a little at her antics.

Ciri took one more look around. “Does everyone have their potions?” Hands went to belt pouches, and heads nodded. “Good. Then let’s go.”

They mounted up and headed back out onto the endless sands, all of them on horseback save the Iron Bull, who rode his new nuggalope. He saw Ciri looking and grinned at her.

“I named her Taashath,” he said. “Means ‘calm.’”

“And is she?” Ciri asked.

As if in response, Taashath snorted, and the Iron Bull laughed. “Yeah, she’s pretty steady. Thanks, Boss. Sorry about the price tag. If I’d known, I’d have kept my mouth shut.”

“We’re recovering some of that by selling them to the Valo-Kas mercenaries,” Ciri said. “It will work out.” She was just pleased to know it hadn’t been a deliberate attempt to harm the Inquisition.

“Hm.” The Iron Bull grunted. “I wasn’t imagining that reception I got from them, was I?”

“No,” she said simply.

“Word was going to get out about me being a spy sooner or later once I joined up with the Inquisition,” the Iron Bull said. He sounded vaguely regretful.

“If you’ve been outed as a spy, won’t your superiors relocate you once the Inquisition finishes its work?” Ciri asked him. “You probably won’t even be a mercenary in a year or two.”

The Iron Bull grimaced. “I’d been trying not to think about that.”

“Isn’t that part of being Ben-Hassrath? Having a cover, digging up secrets, going where you’re told?” she asked. “From the way you spoke in the Fallow Mire, I’d have thought you’d be more enthusiastic about doing as the Qun commanded.”

“Yeah, that’s the life of a spy,” the Iron Bull said. “But…look. I’ve been left pretty much to my own devices for years. I’m used to the Qun being _over there_ , you know? Sure, I could cut ties and start over, but I don’t want to. I like what I have going on now.”

Ciri nodded in understanding and didn’t voice her suspicions. The Iron Bull had far more in common with Shokrakar and Taarlok than he did with the people back in Qunandar – and on some level, he likely knew it.

Zephyr balked and whinnied as an unearthly, ululating cry echoed across the sands, plaintive and demanding. Ciri winced and rubbed her mare’s neck.

“And there’s the mating call. We’d best get a move on.”

They picked up the pace, adjusting their course as they headed in the direction the strident call was coming from. It would rise and fall, then drop off for several seconds before picking up again, louder and more insistent than before.

At last, the broken pillars from the ruins came into view, and they dismounted warily. The Iron Bull pulled a long rope and a set of stakes from Taashath's saddlebags and quickly knocked a picket line into place in the ground.

“They’ll be safe enough if we’re quick,” he said. “No animals will come near a dragon’s nest, and I doubt she’ll go for them with us keeping her attention.”

Ciri sincerely hoped so. They tied their mounts’ leads to the picket line and did a final check of their armor and weapons while the dragon wailed within. Vivienne beckoned to them, and they presented her with their swords, greataxe, and arrows for her to sweep an imperious hand over. A crackling sheen of frost followed in her hand’s wake, and Vivienne smiled in satisfaction.

“I believe we’re ready, Lady Ciri.”

They left the horses behind and walked toward the ululating cry coming from within the ruins. As they rounded a pillar, a wall of rust-red scaly hide met their eyes, and Sera yelped in excitement.

“That’s – that’s – _wow_!” She cackled.

 _“Ataashi,”_ the Iron Bull said reverently. He threw back his head and laughed.

Vivienne swung her staff wide, and a cool barrier settled over them. Ciri adjusted her grip on _Gynvael_ ’s hilt and nodded to the others. “Now!”

The mating call turned to a screech of rage as their weapons sank into its hind leg. The dragon clambered to all fours and craned its heavy, horned head around to stare balefully at them. Almost disdainfully, it kicked out. Ciri sprang away. From the sound of the cursing, the Iron Bull had been caught by the blow.

The dragon’s tail lashed across the sandy ground, nearly hitting the Iron Bull again. He whooped and struck out with his greataxe, a wild look of joy on his craggy face.

Ciri darted back in to slash at the dragon’s scaled belly. In her peripheral vision, she saw Vivienne pass by, a conjured sword of pure light in one hand and her staff in the other. The dragon screeched again as blood poured from the wound Ciri had opened.

Fire flooded the dragon’s nest, and Ciri ducked farther beneath its belly as it breathed flames at Owain and Olgierd. Vivienne rushed over, her staff upraised, and thrust it forward directly into the dragon’s open mouth. It choked and screeched, its fire abruptly cut off by a mouthful of ice.

“Everyone alright?” Ciri called.

“A little hot,” Owain called back.

“Well enough,” Olgierd said, his voice tight.

She redoubled her efforts on the wound on the dragon’s belly. In the near distance, she could hear Sera laughing and counting as she loosed arrows. A front leg buckled unexpectedly, and the dragon cried out in pain.

“Ha- _ha!_ ” the Iron Bull laughed. _“Taarsidath-an halsaam!”_

Half-plate and silk robes in the corner of her eye. Owain and Olgierd again, attacking the back leg on the same side as the crippled front limb. A shadow crossed the sands, and the dragon’s wings snapped out to beat the air heavily, whipping up sand and wind to drag them closer with brutal strength. Olgierd swiftly got out of range with a burst of black and red smoke.

The buffeting winds knocked Owain to one knee, and as he made to stand, the dragon kicked him square in the back. He went sprawling, cursing loudly, while his greatsword flew in the opposite direction.

“Shit, _move!_ ” the Iron Bull called.

“Owain!” Ciri shrieked as the dragon’s foot smashed down on his back, grinding him into the sand.

Ciri stabbed her sword up into the dragon’s belly, and it screeched and recoiled, hopping off him and limping several feet away. Olgierd teleported to Owain’s side in another burst of smoke and knelt beside him.

“Can you speak?”

Owain answered with a string of curses.

“Good man,” Olgierd said. He pressed lightly on Owain’s back and shoulders through his armor. “Tell me what hurts.”

Ciri had to stop paying attention to them then as the dragon tramped and stomped over her head, the bleeding belly wound dripping down above her. The Iron Bull and Vivienne attacked its limbs while Sera loosed what seemed like an endless supply of icy arrows.

The other front leg collapsed, and she ducked out from beneath as it crumpled to the sand. Owain retrieved his greatsword with a wince and slipped an empty potion bottle into his belt pouch.

“Heavy girl,” he muttered. He struck out at its last good hind leg, staying clear of its lashing tail and fierce jaws.

Ciri slipped around its buckled front limbs and swung a heavy overhand strike at its thick neck, right where the scales thinned on the throat. The hide split, the edges of the cut lined with ice, and the dragon wailed.

Again she struck. A third time. Blood flew through the air, spattering her face and armor.

Finally, the dragon fell with a tremendous thud and a final cry of pain and went still. Ciri turned from it at once and rushed back to the others.

“Is everyone alright?” she demanded.

“A mite singed,” Olgierd admitted. He held up a hand to stave off her worry. “I already took a potion, never fear.”

“Bruised, but I’ll live,” the Iron Bull said.

“Owain?” Ciri asked anxiously.

He rested his broad hand on his ribs and winced again. “The sand was fairly giving, though my back will be blue by nightfall. No bones broken, I don’t think.”

Ciri felt her stomach unclench, and she relaxed a hair. Seeing him ground into the sand beneath the dragon’s foot had been terrible. She hadn’t realized he’d become so important to her.

“You should see the healers when we get back to the keep,” she told him. She itched to reach out and reassure herself he was fine.

“I’ll go see Evie,” he promised.

Sera started to laugh, her eyes wide and excited.

“Are you quite alright, my dear?” Vivienne asked.

“Stuff it, Vivvy,” Sera retorted. “I’m – yeah! I’m just – alive, yeah? Really, really alive!”

The Iron Bull laughed as well as he looked down at Ciri. “Boss. You’re the _best_.”

“I do try,” Ciri said, smiling back. “Back to the keep, everyone. We’ll tell the scouts they have work to do.”

She glanced down at the blood splattered across her armor and wrinkled her nose. Now she really needed that bath.

* * *

Ciri let herself into her room long after supper had ended. She’d dined in the camp outside the keep at the Iron Bull’s invitation. Everyone who’d fought the dragon had come to share in a large bottle of highly potent alcohol and travel rations. The toasting went on for a while, growing progressively more outrageous as the level in the bottle had dropped.

And now, her head spinning slightly and her body pleasantly warm, she shut the door behind her and kicked her boots off with a sigh of relief. Her trousers and shirt joined the boots on the floor, and she sat on the edge of the bed in her underclothes and kicked her heels back and forth idly in the dim candlelight.

The door creaked open. Owain slipped inside, still moving somewhat stiffly. He fixed the latch in place and turned toward the bed, and frank appreciation filled his eyes.

"I should get injured more often if this is how I get greeted in private," he said.

Ciri felt too good to snap at him, but she still frowned. “Don’t even joke about it. It looked awful, seeing you under its foot.”

“I am only joking,” he assured her. “And Evie says I’ll be fine in a few days.”

With a wince and a grimace, he carefully pulled his shirt over his head and dropped it beside Ciri’s. She watched the muscles draw across the broad planes of his back as he bent to remove his boots, and she frowned again at the deep blue bruising that covered his skin.

“It looks worse than it is,” Owain said over his shoulder. “Evie sped up the healing by a few days. My back would be red otherwise.”

“I know.”

Owain’s trousers hit the floor, and he joined her on the bed, pressing a tender kiss to her lips. “Don’t think I’m up to much,” he admitted. “How does cuddling sound to you?”

“It suits me very well.”

He laid down gingerly on his side and reached out to draw her down into his arms. She went gladly, stretching out against the expanse of warm, bare skin with a sigh.

“Just cuddling?” she murmured against his lips.

“Hm. Kisses?”

Owain was as good as his word, and Ciri melted into his kiss. She returned it with a depth of feeling she hadn’t known she held, relief and passion and something that felt uncomfortably like love all tangled up within her.

Her tipsiness was wearing off, but the headiness of simple kisses on the bed, skin to skin, turned time into honey, thick and golden. Her hands began to wander, tentative at first, then bolder, exploring his chest and arms and shoulders. His hand fell from her waist and journeyed up, touching her gently, lovingly.

She felt his hand trail back down to her hip, then to her thigh, and he paused.

“Interesting tattoo.”

Ciri shifted back a few inches to look at his face, then his hand, the hazy glow dropping away instantly. He didn’t look judgmental, just mildly curious, his finger tracing the stem and leaves of the rose along her inner thigh.

“I got that when I wasn’t quite fifteen years old,” she said.

“It’s amazing the colors have held up so well.” He fell silent a moment. “Not quite fifteen. Your bandit days?”

“Mm-hmm.”

“Is there a story behind it?” he asked gently.

“I got it to match Mistle’s,” she told him, her eyes on his finger as it traced the tattoo. “My first lover.”

“That’s young to have a lover.”

“…I know.”

Her memory of getting the tattoo was sharp-edged and bright in the way that most of her fisstech-tainted memories were. Hotspurn, deliberately goading the Rats to face Bonhart. Learning of the false Ciri for the first time and seething with jealousy. Flirting and hanging on to Mistle to discomfit Hotspurn. The captive Master Almavera bent over each of the Rats with his inks and needles.

Half the reason Ciri had chosen a rose to match Mistle’s was to put Hotspurn’s nose out of joint, to make him make that face like he was trying not to pretend their closeness didn’t appall him. Had he not been there –

Had he not been there, she’d still be a bandit. Or Bonhart would have sought them out instead, and she still would have been captured. There was no point wondering about what-ifs.

“How did you end up with bandits in the first place?” Owain asked.

“There was a fight at Aretuza, the sorceresses’ school,” Ciri began. “A coup. Lady Yennefer helped me escape through a portal in Tor Lara, but it dropped me in the middle of the Frying Pan – the Korath Desert.”

Softly, she recounted her struggle to survive in that unforgiving environment. She told him of Little Horse, and of how she summoned rain from fire against Yennefer’s explicit warnings and lost control almost immediately. How she had to cut herself off from Chaos entirely. How she made it to the edge of the desert, weary and half-dead, only to be captured by men looking to take her to Nilfgaard for a reward.

"They took me with them to an inn," she said. "Another group was there with their own captive. Kayleigh, one of the Rats, though I didn't know it yet. He was set to hang. A couple of the men started talking of having their fun with me before turning me in. I got myself free, then freed Kayleigh, and we fought our way out – though he scorned me for not harming anyone. The Rats had ridden to his rescue, and as thanks for helping Kayleigh, they took me with them."

She paused. “I was all alone, separated from Geralt and Yennefer. I was tired, hungry, and scared. They’d rescued me, given me clothing, called me one of them. I stayed the night.”

Owain said nothing, his eyes kind and free of judgment.

“That first night, Kayleigh tried to…” Ciri trailed off. “Mistle stopped him.”

“Is that why you became lovers?” he asked. “A dashing lady bandit riding to your rescue?”

A strained laugh escaped her. “She stopped him to take his place.” She felt a strange, unhappy smile twist her lips. “And in the morning, all I could think was, ‘At least I’m not alone anymore.’”

His finger fell away from her tattoo and his arm came around her to pull her in for a hug. “I’m sorry.”

“It was a long time ago.”

“That doesn’t mean I can’t care.”

She leaned into him and just breathed, trying to ignore the unexpected stinging behind her eyelids.

The world had been cruel to the Rats, and they’d been cruel in return. Ciri, in turn, had become cruel in their company. And yet, there’d been laughter and dancing and camaraderie, and she _had_ loved Mistle in the end. She had.

“You called them your friends before,” he said after she’d collected herself.

“I suspect I always will.” She leaned back again to look him in the eyes. “I have to remember them fondly. There’s no one else on the Continent who’d care to.”

“You have a kind heart,” he said softly.

"I can't condemn them without condemning myself," she whispered. "We were bandits, Owain. We weren't good people. We robbed nobles and merchants, stole and looted, and indulged in all manner of vices."

“Mm.” He pulled her in close again. “You’re one of the kindest, bravest, most caring people I’ve had the privilege to meet. Whatever you did, whoever you were – I don’t judge you for it. You were barely more than a child. Your past doesn’t define you, and it doesn’t change anything for me.”

Ciri leaned in to kiss him, swift and firm, her heart painfully full with a dozen things she couldn’t find the words to say.

“You’re wonderful,” she said simply.

Owain smiled at her, his dark blue eyes warm in the flickering candlelight. “You bring it out in me.”

He kissed her back gently and gave her a light nudge to the hip, encouraging her to roll over onto her other side. With her back to his chest and his arm draped across her waist, he dropped another kiss on the top of her head.

“Get some rest. We have a long ride ahead of us tomorrow.”

“Good night.”

He fell asleep within minutes, his breath steady and even against the back of her head. But rest eluded Ciri, and she stared into the dimly lit room as the candle slowly burned down, warm and cozy and lost in thought.

She _had_ loved Mistle. But then, why did this feel so different?

* * *

Avallac’h greeted her on Adamant’s battlements. The fort was empty around them, the blood and wreckage nowhere to be seen.

“You ventured into the Fade in body,” he said.

“And where were you?” she asked him sharply. “Vlodimir was there. If you’d been there, maybe –”

“I’m not Adventure, _Zireael_ ,” he rebuked her. “I have other ways to find you in the Fade than following you across Thedas. And you should have realized by now that I’m no spirit. Adventure could find a way into Nightmare’s domain far easier than I.”

“He died for us.”

“Perhaps,” Avallac’h said. “Spirits do not die in the same sense that mortals do. A version of him may return someday.”

Ciri shook her head. “It wouldn’t be the same. Not to Olgierd.”

“No. No, it wouldn’t.”

Ciri pressed down her guilt again and changed the subject. “What does _harellan_ mean?”

His eyes sharpened with interest. “Now why would you ask that, after all this time?”

“The Nightmare demon called S – my tutor that,” she said. Reluctantly, she added, “And he answered to it.”

“Ah,” Avallac’h said. He smiled, a small, satisfied expression. “It meant ‘trickster’ originally, as derived from the old Elvhen name of Fen’Harel. The literal translation of that is ‘Wolf Who Deceives.’ The Dalish, however, use _harellan_ to mean ‘traitor to one’s kin.’”

Given Solas' disdain for the Dalish and the way he spoke of the Elvhen, both he and the Nightmare most likely had the first definition in mind.

“You said that the _harellan_ intended to take down the Veil, that he’d doom Thedas and the Fade in his ‘quest for atonement.’ What does he need to atone for?”

“I also said the winds were shifting,” Avallac’h reminded her. “I said he may yet have a change of heart.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“It isn’t,” Avallac’h agreed. “Some things aren’t meant to be discussed in the Fade.”

She should have known better than to expect a straight answer out of him. “You speak of him as though you know him well,” she said, studying his face closely. “But how can you, if you’ve been trapped in the Fade for thousands of years?”

His small, satisfied smile widened. “How indeed. Time for you to wake up, _Zireael_. That’s enough questions for tonight.”

“But –”

She opened her eyes to Owain’s sleepy, smiling face.

“Good morning,” he murmured.

“Morning.”

Solas, a trickster? Out to destroy the Veil?

On a quest for atonement?

There was something she was missing. It just didn’t make sense. Without that knowledge, all she could do was try to ensure that the winds kept shifting in her favor. And in the meantime, she’d ask Leliana to make some discreet inquiries.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really appreciate your feedback! I like knowing I've entertained you with an update.


	47. "Blackwall" and Resolution

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ciri arrives back at Skyhold and learns all that went on while she was fighting at Adamant. Leliana has news for her. Later, Olgierd and Josephine have their long-awaited talk.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> beta-read by brightspot149. Thank you!

Triss ambushed Ciri just outside Skyhold’s stables, her eyes sharp with anger and her brow creased in a dark frown.

“You entered the demonic plane physically?” she demanded, low and furious. She looped her arm through Ciri’s as they walked back toward the main hall, Olgierd, Cullen, and Owain trailing close behind.

“The Fade,” Ciri corrected her. “And it was that or plummet to our deaths. I take it our letter arrived?”

“Yes, we heard about that, and about your decision to forgive and ally with the Wardens, and to hand over the magister to them.” Triss huffed in disapproval. “And your fight with the dragon. Are you trying to make Geralt and Yenna kill me?”

“I’m trying to do what’s right, to keep people from dying, and to be the leader they expect me to be,” Ciri shot back. “I didn’t ask for any of this, but I’m doing my best, Triss. We came out of the Fade in one piece. The Warden mages are free from Corypheus’ influence. We survived the fight with the dragon. You don’t need to tell Geralt and Lady Yennefer even half of it.”

Triss' frown deepened. “That wasn’t the agreement you made with them.”

“No, but the danger has passed, and there’s little enough they can do here without Geralt getting taken for an abomination or my whole past being called into question by their presence.”

She missed them so much she ached with it sometimes. She longed to have Geralt’s steady good sense and terrible humor nearby, and to be able to turn to Yennefer for practical advice and comfort when she felt alone and confused. But the story Leliana and Josephine had woven for her background balanced precariously on a lie: her parents were deceased in Thedas. If one lie fell apart, all the others would in short order, and the Inquisition’s failure would be on her shoulders.

She had to go on without them.

“I’ll downplay things, but I won’t lie,” Triss told her. She took a breath and gave Ciri a regretful smile as her anger faded. “I think I’ve lied to them enough for one lifetime.”

“They still call you friend,” Ciri said. “I imagine it’s all water under the bridge by now. It would have to be with how long all of you live.”

“Grudges are useless when you might see three hundred years or more,” Triss agreed.

At the top of the steps to the main hall, the doors opened, and Leliana and Josephine came out to welcome them. Leliana met Ciri’s eyes and flashed a small scroll at her, concealed in the palm of her hand. Josephine, however, looked beyond her, and as she reached the top of the stairs, Olgierd’s steady tread stopped just behind on the stair below.

Josephine took a step forward, reaching past Ciri tentatively, and Olgierd reached back to take her hand in his.

“We heard about what happened in the Fade,” she said, her voice full of sympathy. “Olgierd…I’m so sorry for your loss.”

“He was brave to the end, and he saved our lives,” Olgierd said quietly. “Cole did warn me. You can’t keep Adventure out of a fight.” He looked between Josephine and Leliana. “Is it safe for you to be out here with just the one guard?”

Josephine smiled at that and squeezed his hand once before pulling hers back – reluctantly, Ciri thought.

“I found a minister who was willing to assist me, and Maxwell Trevelyan traveled to Val Royeaux to bargain with her on my behalf. He sent word from the city as soon as the documents were signed, and I sent a letter to the Du Paraquettes in Val Foret,” she said. “The contract was annulled five days ago. There’s no longer a price on my life.”

“You’ve no idea how glad I am to hear it.” Olgierd’s hand twitched at his side, and he leaned forward just the slightest bit. “To know you’re safe again – that’s all that matters.”

Josephine glanced at Ciri and the others assembled on the stairs, then met Olgierd’s eyes again. “I would like to speak with you after we have our meeting. If you’d still like to have that conversation, of course.”

“Indeed I would." He lowered his voice as a mix of trepidation and wistfulness flickered across his face. "Your room?"

Josephine nodded. “My room. I’ll see you there in an hour and a half, no more than that.”

“I’ll be there.”

Leliana cleared her throat and stepped forward. “We’ll give you time to get the dust off the road, Inquisitor, but we do need to discuss Adamant and other matters. Shall we convene in the War Room in forty-five minutes?”

“That’s agreeable,” Ciri said.

She fell into step with Leliana as they entered the main hall, and felt her spymaster pass the small scroll to her surreptitiously.

“Your lead bore fruit,” Leliana murmured. “I found answers for you.”

“Thank you.” She hesitated. “Is it – very bad?”

Leliana’s gaze flickered down to the scroll tucked in Ciri’s hand. “That is a matter of opinion, I suppose, but I wouldn’t call it good. We can discuss it later, after you’ve washed up. The servants have prepared a bath for you.”

Ciri bade everyone a brief farewell, giving Owain a swift kiss on the cheek, and went through the door to the stairs leading to her room. The steaming bathtub at the foot of the bed tempted her, but she unfurled the little scroll first and let her eyes fall to the crisp handwriting that crossed it.

Her heart dropped, and she rolled it back up again and shoved it deep into her belt pouch.

What was she supposed to do with this information? What now?

* * *

The War Room held the full complement of advisors when Ciri arrived, her hair still damp and road dust still clinging to her boots. Owain, Raúl, and Cullen all looked fresher for the brief reprieve, and they were deep in conversation with Triss as she came through the door.

“Is there something I’m missing?” Ciri asked.

“No, you’re right on time,” Triss said. “Maybe you can tell the Commander he needs to take a few days off to take the potion now before work picks up again.”

“You’re proposing that the entire military command be put out of commission for days. What if there’s an emergency?” Cullen crossed his arms and frowned heavily. “We can’t afford it.”

“You and Ser Rylen should take it first,” Ciri suggested. “Owain, Raúl, and Rona can do so after you’ve recovered. Any former Templars who want to take it after that can have access once they’ve made it through. Triss, do you have enough ingredients?”

“We have plenty, and we have some made up right now,” Triss said. “The battle at Adamant is over, which is what you were waiting on last time, Commander. There’s no better time to get it over with than today.”

He still looked reluctant, and Owain spoke up. “My sister wouldn’t make anything harmful. And Rona would say the same of her brother.”

“Very well.” Cullen uncrossed his arms, his shoulders sagging. “Shall we go to your workroom after the meeting?”

“It would be better if you took it in the infirmary,” Triss told him. At the look he gave her, she explained, “The lyrium only has a few ways to come out. We’ll need to stay near the chamber pots and emesis basins.”

“Oh. Wonderful.”

“Moving on,” Leliana said delicately. “No one will second-guess your choice on how to handle the Wardens, Inquisitor. But we were wondering if anything happened in the Fade that we should know about besides the unfortunate passing of Adventure.”

“Yes, the missive from Adamant only said that you recovered your memories,” Chancellor Roderick said. “It left off what, exactly, those recovered memories were.”

"I couldn't trust it to a letter," Ciri said. "We learned how I got the anchor, and what happened to the Divine."

“Hm.” Josephine set down her clipboard and quill on the giant table, her eyes knowing. “This is something we would do well to keep secret, I take it.”

“It is.” Ciri reflexively clenched her marked hand. “Corypheus had ensorcelled Warden mages with him. He was using an orb of some sort to drain the life from the Divine while the mages held her trapped with magic. That’s when I came into the room. When he looked away from the Divine, she slapped the orb from his hands. It rolled to my feet and I picked it up, and then…” She held up her hand.

“Maker.” Chancellor Roderick shook his head in disbelief. “It’s a wayward spell? Happenstance?”

“Not happenstance,” Leliana asserted. “If we accept that the Maker has influence over everything, then the Inquisitor touching this orb was His doing. As was the anchor.”

“I… Thank you, Sister,” Chancellor Roderick said, though he still looked unsettled. “You’re right, of course. This is as the Maker willed it. But the Orlesians certainly wouldn’t see it that way. You’re right to keep it a secret, Lady Ciri.”

“What’s this orb that Corypheus used?” Raúl asked. “That doesn’t sound like any sort of magic I encountered as a Templar.”

Ciri thought swiftly. Now that they knew Corypheus was the villain behind it all, allowing a little bit of information about the orb to be known shouldn’t do any damage to the elves in the Inquisition. And she had mixed feelings about Solas of late. What if holding his secrets was in some way helping him “trick” her and the Inquisition at large?

“I suspect it’s Elvhen,” she said. “Stolen from a tomb or ruins, I don’t doubt, to power whatever spell Corypheus was trying to cast.”

“That would explain why the anchor’s magic is so compatible with your own,” Leliana agreed. “It’s a shame that a darkspawn could corrupt such an ancient artifact. I hope there’s a way to retrieve it and cleanse it of the taint.”

“That should be further down our list of priorities than keeping the origins of Corypheus’ orb to ourselves,” Owain said. “It could easily be twisted to cast the elves as enemies scheming to destroy Thedas.”

“I wouldn’t put it past the Orlesian nobility,” Raúl said. “Nor Agnesot.”

“Is there news there, Chancellor?” Ciri asked.

“ _Oh_ , yes,” he said with grim humor. “She and her fellow excommunicants have decided on the next Divine. Agnesot is no more. She’s Divine Renata the Second now, and Lydes is the new seat of the faith.”

“She can claim it all she likes. She doesn’t have the Sunburst throne, and the remaining grand clerics didn’t vote for her,” Leliana said angrily.

“The lack of a new Divine has caused worry among the people,” Josephine said. “But they didn’t take well to this. I’ve heard rumors that they’re calling her the ‘Red Divine,’ as a match to the ‘Black Divine’ in Tevinter.”

An uneasy silence fell at her words, and not for the first time, Ciri recalled what she’d learned in the dark future. Lydes had fallen to Corypheus – become a red lyrium farm. They’d need to address that sooner rather than later.

“Whatever the case,” Leliana said after a moment, “we’ll need to proceed very carefully. Lydes is Grand Duchess Florianne’s stronghold as well as Agnesot’s territory, and we must stay on the duchess’ good side if we are to secure an invitation to her peace talks.”

Ciri disliked leaving a threat like that unhandled, but she understood Leliana’s reasoning. “Have those peace talks become more than just vague plans?”

“She intends to hold them in five months,” Josephine said. “In the Winter Palace in Halamshiral. That ought to give us enough time to find a way to get you there, along with a small entourage, and arrange for new formal clothes to be made for everyone.”

“Why the Winter Palace?” Ciri asked. “It’s early spring already. By the time the peace talks are held, it will be summer.”

“But Val Royeaux is Empress Celene’s seat, and would give her the advantage,” Josephine told her. “The Winter Palace is as close to neutral grounds as they might manage without resorting to favoring one of the nobles and using their estate. And make no mistake, _every_ noble has a preferred victor in mind.”

“I suppose I understand.” Ciri looked around. “Was there anything else?”

“There was,” Leliana said. “Cullen and Owain’s choice to send soldiers and the Bull’s Chargers to Wycome paid off. The nobles advancing on the city stopped in their tracks when they saw the Inquisition’s flag flying, and Lady Guinevere was able to discuss matters with them calmly. As it stands, Wycome is now ruled by a citizen council, with Keeper Istimaethoriel at its head.”

“A Dalish elf is in charge of the city? They’re practicing self-governance?” Ciri looked to Josephine for confirmation, and she nodded. “Well. That’s exceedingly strange, but far better than I’d hoped for. I’m glad something good came out of that mess.”

“As are we all,” Leliana agreed.

“There’s also the matter of Crassius Servis,” Josephine said. “Something should be done with him.”

“Was there any more information about him in the correspondence I had sent back to Skyhold?” Ciri asked Leliana.

"Yes, and my agents uncovered some information on his activities out in the Western Approach while you were away," Leliana said. "I'll have it sent up to your desk for review if you'd like."

“I’ll take a look at it tomorrow. Servis can wait one more day, at least.”

Leliana inclined her head in agreement. “I believe that’s the last of it, Inquisitor, though we do have that small matter to discuss in private.”

“If you’ll follow me, Commander, we’ll go find Ser Rylen and get started,” Triss said.

Cullen followed Triss out the door, still looking quite reluctant. Chancellor Roderick and Raúl left behind them with short farewells, and Owain caught Ciri’s eye as he put his hand on the door.

“Supper?”

“Of course,” she said, smiling.

Josephine lingered, straightening her parchment on her clipboard and fussing with the cuffs of her sleeves. Leliana eyed her in resigned amusement.

“Don’t you have a rakish gentleman mage waiting for you, Josie?”

“I do, it’s only…” Josephine looked at Ciri. “I kept him waiting so long. And now he’s in mourning again. I’m afraid I’ll make a mess of things.”

“You can’t possibly,” Ciri assured her. “Go. Talk to him.”

Josephine took a deep breath, squared her shoulders, and walked out the door.

“I suppose that’s it,” Leliana sighed. “I told him I’d accept him if Josie did. And I don’t go back on my word.”

“He’ll treat her well,” Ciri said.

Leliana looked thoughtful. “Perhaps you’re right. But anyway, Inquisitor. The ‘Blackwall’ matter.”

Ciri brushed her hand over her belt pouch. “You wrote that his name is Thom Rainier. And that he was a captain in the imperial army of Orlais.”

“My agents are certain of it,” Leliana said. “Chandler found an old wanted poster of Rainier near Lake Celestine. His face is unbearded in it, but the eyes, nose, and brows are unmistakable.”

“And he really…” Ciri trailed off. “He really killed four children? Led his men to kill that whole family for coin?”

“On the orders of Ser Robert Chapuis, to deprive Empress Celene of one of her generals and give Gaspard an edge in his pursuit of the throne,” Leliana confirmed. “Word got out immediately, of course, and Rainier and his men all fled for their lives. Most of them were captured and hanged. Rainier turned to mercenary work, then disappeared just over a year and a half ago. We now know that he’d taken on Gordon Blackwall’s identity.”

“But why?” Ciri asked. “And why join so public a cause?”

She felt sick at the thought. He’d been akin to a brother Witcher in her mind before she’d realized he’d been lying, but this was beyond anything she’d imagined. All the terrible things she’d done as a bandit, all the many crimes that could be laid at Olgierd’s feet – neither of them had killed children. Even at Olgierd’s worst, he’d had a code he’d killed his own men for violating. Geralt had told her that.

“Perhaps they crossed paths, and something happened to Warden Blackwall,” Leliana said. “Perhaps he felt like he needed to carry on in his place.”

“He does seem to have adopted the Warden cause and ethos as his own.” Ciri drew closer to the table and picked up one of the pewter key tokens to fiddle with. “He had to know he’d be found out eventually if he joined the Inquisition. He could have stayed an anonymous wandering ‘Warden’ for the rest of his life. But he’s been brave, valorous even. That draws attention. As do his missteps when contrasted with Warden Stroud.”

"Sometimes, when people do terrible things or experience great suffering, they take on a new role, even a new identity," Leliana told her. "The change can provide comfort, a new foundation to build on. In Rainier's case, he may have immersed himself so thoroughly in the role of Blackwall that he couldn't keep away from a good cause."

Ciri had a feeling that Leliana was speaking from personal experience. Still, she wouldn’t pry. “You may be right.”

“How would you like to handle this?” Leliana asked.

“Nothing in his behavior, or in the morals he espouses, says ‘child-killer’ to me,” Ciri said. “I know he’s a wanted man, and that harboring him may bring trouble down on our heads, but I’ve fought alongside him several times now. He defended the people in Haven against overwhelming odds. He volunteered to help Stroud in the Western Approach and was badly injured for his trouble. I think he’s a changed man.”

“A changed man who’s lying about his identity and knows so little about the Wardens that it very nearly got you into trouble a few times now,” Leliana pointed out. “If we were still relying on him as our Grey Warden to back up the treaties we invoked, we’d incur the wrath of heads of state and nobles across Thedas when the truth comes out. And it will come out.”

“Yes. I know.” Ciri rolled the pewter marker across the Frostbacks idly. “Do you think Malika Cadash knows his past?”

“It’s possible. She plays things close to her chest, for all her friendliness.”

“I’d like to see if we can nudge him into coming forward with this on his own,” she decided. “If he doesn’t, then we’ll watch him, and we’ll wait. Something will happen.”

Leliana gave her a sharp nod. “Leave it to me, Inquisitor. I’ll have a quiet word with Scout Malika this evening. Was there anything else?”

“There is.” Ciri set the token down and straightened. “Could you have someone look into Solas’ background as well? He says he comes from a small village to the north. If you could find it, I’d appreciate it.”

“Is this a priority?” Leliana asked, her eyes keen.

“I – yes. I believe so.”

“Then I’ll send an agent out at once.”

Ciri turned from the table, then paused as a memory came to her. “There was one other thing. In the Fade, I remembered my escape with the Divine. She told me to tell you she was sorry.”

“Yes.” Leliana’s voice was quiet. “She apologized to me on her deathbed. She didn’t make much sense. She said she’d failed me. I don’t know why she would. Justinia saved my life. She never failed me.” She cleared her throat. “But thank you for telling me.”

“If there’s anything I can do –”

“I’ll let you know.”

Ciri left her behind then, heading out the door to find something to occupy herself with. Now that she had a few brief hours to herself, perhaps she might steal some time with a book in the library. It had been a while since she’d read for pleasure, after all.

* * *

Olgierd looked up at the sound of hurried footsteps coming his way. Josephine strode down the outer balcony toward him, soft curls escaping her braided bun and a look of faint anxiety on her face. He straightened from his slouch against the railing and came to meet her.

“I didn’t keep you waiting long, did I?” Josephine asked.

“Nay. I’ve been out here but a few minutes. I needed the time to freshen up.” He extended his hand to her, half afraid she wouldn’t take it, and felt something ease in his heart when her hand slipped into his. “You look well.”

She patted her hair with her free hand, blushing faintly. “I look like I’ve been on my feet all day. But you’re kind to say so. I do feel well. Far better than I did when my life was in danger.”

“It’s a relief to hear you’ll not be hunted any longer.” He squeezed her fingers gently and nodded toward her door. “Shall we?”

Josephine reached for the handle without letting go of Olgierd’s hand. “Yes. Do come in. Please.”

Olgierd followed her into her room, attached as he was to her soft, slender hand, and waited as she shut the door behind them. She led him to the armchair in the corner, and this time it was his turn to sit in it and hers to stand before him, her hand reclaimed.

Josephine looked down at him, and as he looked back, her serious eyes gentled just the slightest bit.

“Oh, my dear Olgierd,” she said with a sigh. “Did you know I used to be a bard in Val Royeaux?”

“I’d no idea.” He leaned forward in the chair. “I cannot picture it, to be honest. Such a cutthroat life isn’t in your nature.”

“No,” she agreed softly. “No, I had to learn that the hard way.”

“What happened, Josephine?”

“Like many young noble men and women of university age, I decided to learn the Grand Game by putting on a mask and becoming a bard,” Josephine said. “I sang, played music, made charming conversation…and spied. I had a noble patron who sent me here and there on small errands. On one memorable occasion, I encountered another bard sent to kill my patron. We fought – scrapped, perhaps, is the better word – at the top of a steep flight of stairs. He drew a knife, and I pushed him away. He fell.”

She hugged her arms around herself. “You can imagine what happened.”

“I can.” He gripped the arms of the chair, his heart aching at the look on Josephine’s face.

“I rushed to the bottom of the stairs, but it was too late. And his mask...his mask had fallen from his face.” She turned from him, her arms dropping to her sides again. “I knew him. He was a friend of mine from the university. It was such a waste of life!”

“Oh, dove.” He stood from the armchair and went to her. She still fit perfectly within his arms. “I do admire your tender heart. He’d have killed you had you not protected yourself, you know this.”

“I do.” She pulled back from his embrace a little to smile up at him faintly. “No one has called me dove in over a month. I’ve missed that.”

"I'll call you that every day if you like." Reluctantly, he released her and stepped back. “But you bring this up for a reason, I expect.”

Josephine didn’t let him get far. She caught his rough, scarred hand and held it between both of hers, her hazel eyes fixed on the heavy rings he wore. “Yes. A reminder to myself that we promised from the start not to judge each other by our pasts. I suppose I should have known that you’d respond so kindly.”

“You made that promise before you heard the worst of it,” Olgierd said. “I don’t hold it against you.”

“Your confession was troubling, to say the least,” Josephine said. “I couldn’t stop picturing my own father dying like that. And I know your world doesn’t have the same concept of maleficar that Thedas does, but trapping your wife with demons and denying her the right to divorce you is an awful thing.”

“We haven’t maleficar, but goetia, demonology, is a forbidden art,” he admitted. “I learned it so I might summon O’Dimm and break the contract.”

She glanced up at that, a look of wry, unwilling amusement in her eyes. “That doesn’t help.”

“My apologies. I’ll not be less honest with you, however.”

“One of the many things I appreciate about you,” she said, aiming a small smile at his hand. “Still, I had to admit to myself that if I was willing to accept that you’d led a band of raiders into peasant villages before you were cursed, then I couldn’t suddenly decide that whatever crimes you committed after you were cursed were unacceptable.”

“It’s no easy thing to accept,” he said. “What I did –”

“What you did was monstrous,” she interrupted, her voice unbearably gentle. “But you weren’t a monster through your own choice. You said you wished to live as though there were no tomorrow, not as though you had no heart. It’s not my place to forgive it, but you have my forgiveness anyway.”

He felt the heavy weight of old sins crack and crumble away beneath her kind gaze. “Josephine –”

“You do.” Her voice firmed. “But we shall make a pact, going forward. We must always be honest with each other. You and Iris promised each other a marriage without secrets. I cannot give you even a courtship without that. As a diplomat, I must keep people’s confidence. But honesty in our personal lives, that’s something we should strive for.”

“You have my word.”

“And…” Josephine looked down at his hand again, then back up, her eyes wary. “And if either of us ever wishes to leave, we will let each other go.”

“Oh, dove.” He reached out with his free hand to cup her smooth cheek. “I’ll not clip your wings.”

She laughed a little and dropped his hand with a final squeeze. “You have the heart of a poet, my dear one.”

“Perish the thought.”

“Mm. Some magnificent warrior-poet, off fighting grand battles and singing songs around the campfire, casting spells and leaving women enthralled in every town he passes through.”

“I’ve only eyes for one.” He lowered his voice. “Is all well between us, Josephine? Truly?”

“All is well,” she said. “But are you? Your loss of Adventure was so recent.”

For a heartbeat, the need to downplay the loss rose in him.

_Honesty_.

“It aches,” he admitted. “He told me to look to my dreams for him, and he pushed me into Ciri and Solas’ arms and ran out to fight that creature alone. Every night, I do as he bade. But my dreams are flat and rote. Whatever spirit has taken Vlodimir's role, they aren't Adventure. They aren't Vlod. I've lost him twice now."

“I’m so sorry,” she said again, her face full of sympathy.

“It was a far better death than he had the first time,” Olgierd said quietly. “I never forgave myself for that. Told everyone he died a hero in the thick of battle rather than admit O’Dimm arranged for a table to break open his head. At my behest, no less. This death, taking on a demon the size of Skyhold’s main hall to protect the rest of us, is the sort of thing bards tell tales of to adoring crowds.”

“Are you certain he died?” she asked. “I’ve heard it’s different with spirits.”

“We saw him disappear, not fall,” Olgierd told her. “But I haven’t much hope. He’d have returned by now if he lived.”

“Then I’ll hold out hope for you,” she said kindly. “My heart is less battered than yours. I can withstand the disappointment if I turn out to be wrong.”

Olgierd swallowed hard against the sudden lump in his throat, and when he spoke, his voice was hoarse. “You’re a jewel among women.”

“We have a partnership,” Josephine said, and she laced her fingers through his. “We share our joys and sorrows.”

“My dearest Josephine.” He pulled her into his arms and pressed a kiss to the side of her silky hair. “A partnership it is.”

“Kiss me,” she said, wrapping her arms around his neck. “I have missed your kisses.”

He held her close, savoring the feel of the warmth of her body pressed against his, the scent of her perfume winding itself around his head, and he dropped his lips to hers. She returned the kiss sweetly, her soft lips parting beneath his.

His pulse quickened, and fierce joy raced through him. Her hand came up to cup the back of his head, her fingers threading through the short horsetail tied there. He shivered and tugged her closer, one hand slowly sliding down to rest on her hip.

Their lips parted, and Josephine took a slow, slightly unsteady breath. “That was…not how I remember our last kiss.”

“Was that too much, dove?”

“It’s just enough, I think.” She hesitated. “Unless you would rather have more, in which case, we will need to have another discussion.”

He tucked a stray tendril of hair behind her ear and smiled. “We spoke of this before. Our journey together is just as valuable as our destination. There’s no rush.”

Remembering either version of his brother hurt to do, but he’d never been like Vlodimir with his peasant lasses, milkmaids, and naïfs. He’d given his heart only twice now, and he’d long outgrown any interest in dalliances. If Josephine wished to move slowly, that was fine by him.

She leaned back in and kissed him gently, then rested her head on his shoulder. “You are so very dear. Hold me?”

“For as long as you like.”

They stood together in the corner of her room, his cheek resting on the top of her head and their arms around each other as they quietly breathed together. And as the light slowly turned pink and gold outside her small window, Olgierd felt more at peace than he had in over thirty-five years.


	48. Lyrium and Judgments

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ciri attempts to understand Solas a little and pays a visit to the infirmary. She finally gets around to judging Servis, and she, Malika, and "Blackwall" have an overdue conversation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> beta-read by brightspot149. Thank you!
> 
> Chapter specific warning: if you're emetophobic, skip the infirmary scene. There's vomiting.
> 
> Cullen and Evelyn are briefly awkward at each other in the infirmary.

Ciri held out her hand quietly as Solas pressed the chrysoprase disc flat against her palm. Unlike Triss, he didn’t chant in any tongue, merely furrowed his brow and narrowed his eyes. Her hand prickled, then stung terribly as magic rushed through it, drawing the tiniest bit of the anchor from the shattered-glass lines of her palm to the glowing disc. By the time it became nearly unbearable, the disc was too bright to look at directly.

Solas pulled it away and turned to place it in the strongbox with the others. “You’re doing well, _lethallin_. At this rate, you should be free of the anchor in under a year.”

She didn’t like the sound of that. “Is there any way to speed it up?”

“Not without damaging your hand further or straining the magic that belongs to you.” He closed the lid on the brightly shining discs and locked them away. “Your avoidance of magic and of your unusual Fade step has helped a great deal to slow its progression.”

“Do you think it will be safe for me to ‘Fade step’ again someday?”

“Of that, I have no doubt,” he said with a small smile. “You’ll soon be flitting across the battlefield again.”

And after that, it was a short step to going home again, and to seeing her family.

She looked over his shoulder at the locked strongbox and tipped her head at it curiously. “What can those be used for? Or are they just very dramatic-looking trinkets, useless but attractive?”

“It would take a rare person to use them,” he told her. “Very few people know how to channel the energies in Veil magic. And it has limited uses. Thinning, thickening, opening, closing, and manipulating the Veil – all could be made simpler with the use of one of those discs.”

Ciri looked back at him swiftly. “Then we might be able to use them to strengthen the Veil.”

“It is a possibility,” Solas said.

“ _You_ told me the Veil must not come down in the future,” she pointed out to him again. “You called its absence an abomination. You told me to tell you this.”

“I remember your words.” He frowned, an edge of frustration glinting in his lavender-gray eyes. “There was no such barrier in the days of the Elvhen empire. Spirits lived freely among the Elvhen then. One might see a spirit of knowledge hold a position at a library, or a spirit of integrity mediate an argument between bickering parties. Spirits would help or hinder as their natures dictated.

“Does that not sound marvelous to you, _lethallin_?” he asked her intently.

“Solas,” she said, reaching out to place her hand over his. “The Veil was gone in the future. It wasn’t like that at all. Sometimes…sometimes a thing is lost forever. It does sound marvelous. But I don’t think it can ever be that way again.”

The intent gleam in his eyes dimmed slightly, and he pulled his hand away. “Perhaps you’re right,” he said. “After all, if I should listen to anyone’s words of wisdom, you’d think I’d care to hear my own. And your thoughts are always valued, of course.”

“It’s good that you can visit these ancient memories in the Fade,” Ciri said carefully, “but Solas, you so rarely speak of things you like about the world around you today. I worry that you’ve isolated yourself here in the Inquisition.”

He gave her another small smile. “The world of today brought me great joy when I met you, _lethallin_. I had not thought to find a kinswoman in such an unlikely person. And Cole is a good friend.”

“It’s a start,” she encouraged him. “What of the others? Varric, perhaps, or Cassandra? Olgierd and Triss would be fine friends to have, too.”

“If it matters that much to you, I’ll attempt to socialize,” he said. “Perhaps I’ll try Varric first. I did have some questions for him about ‘Hard in Hightown’’s strangely high number of spies and characters in disguise.”

“There you go,” Ciri said. “Writers love talking about their work.”

“Where are you off to next?”

“I thought I’d check on Cullen and Ser Rylen in the infirmary,” she told him. “Then I must judge Crassius Servis, the Venatori mage who surrendered to us in the Western Approach.”

“I’ll accompany you,” he said, and he reached past her to open the door. “Triss and Evelyn may wish for an extra set of hands for a while.”

The walk next door to the infirmary was brief. Faint sounds of retching could be heard through the door, and Ciri turned the handle and stepped through.

Cullen lay back on a cot, his face wan and nearly as pale as the sheet beneath him, and covered in a sheen of oddly blue sweat. In the cot beside him, Ser Rylen hunched over a basin as his retching ceased. Ciri got a brief glimpse of its contents as Clemence came to take the bowl away. Thin and watery, and tinted a strange, bright blue.

“Time to have something more to drink,” Evelyn told them as she passed them both mugs of lightly clouded liquid. “Sit up, Cullen. You, too.”

Ciri ventured farther in and sidled up to Triss, who was studying the emesis basin carefully. “What’s in the mugs?”

“Water, honey, salt, and a little lemon juice,” Triss said. She raised her voice. “Evelyn, will you check Ser Rylen’s head?”

“Right away!”

“The potion pulls the lyrium from the blood vessels and forces the body to expel it,” Triss explained. “Through the pores, though vomiting, through excrement and urine. Unfortunately, this does some damage in the process. And all the vomiting can strain the blood vessels on the brain. Owain and the other Markham Templars will have an easier time of it since they have fewer blood vessels corrupted by lyrium, but these two…” Triss shook her head. “We’re healing as we go.”

“I’m here to offer my assistance for a few hours,” Solas said. “Where would you like me?”

“If you could do for Cullen what Evelyn’s doing for Ser Rylen, I’d appreciate it,” she said. “She’ll show you the technique.”

Solas looked like he had something to say, but instead, he just nodded in acquiescence. "I'll get started."

“Thank you.”

“How long will they be like this?” Ciri asked as she watched Solas approach Evelyn.

“They only got started yesterday afternoon,” Triss reminded her. “They have another day like this, two at the most. Then we’ll release them for short duty, with orders to eat lots of red meat and to exercise daily to rebuild their strength.”

“This is amazing, Triss. I hope you know that," Ciri murmured. "You, Evelyn, and Clemence have cured an incurable addiction."

“I can’t let Keira have all the fun of curing diseases, even if it’s not an accomplishment anyone back home will care about,” Triss replied, equally quiet. “But it’s nice to do something practical here.”

“Are you feeling left out?”

“No. Not really. This and the meetings have kept me busy.”

Clemence set an empty basin into Cullen’s hands and said in his strange, even voice, “It is fortunate for the Templars that the mages rebelled. Had they not, the Chantry would never have let them study the lyrium so closely, and the Templars’ addiction would have continued without any hope of relief.”

“Ha!” Ser Rylen let out a strained, barking laugh and winced as the movement jostled his head. “Maker, that’s a strange thought.”

Cullen stared down into the basin, looking sick. “Remind me to raise my next mug to Anders and Hawke,” he muttered.

“Your toast would be more appropriately directed to Grand Enchanter Fiona and the College of Enchanters,” Clemence corrected him. “But you are free to credit whoever you like for your situation, Commander.”

Ciri glanced at him sharply, but he was as blank-faced as always, not a hint of humor to be seen.

Ser Rylen laughed hoarsely again. “Didn’t think Tranquil were much for joking, but you’re a sharp one. A lot like your sister, aren’t you?”

“Rona is my sibling,” Clemence said blandly. “It is natural we would have many similarities.”

Cullen quietly began heaving over the basin as Solas hovered over him with his hand extended, a soft, warm light flowing from his palm.

Ciri took in the room from her position by Triss, seeing the way Evelyn diligently looked over Rylen while keeping Cullen in the corner of her eye, the way Cullen, miserably hunched over his basin, snuck glances at Evelyn when his body offered him a reprieve. She wondered if Cullen had considered that had Evelyn not been a mage, this cure might never have been developed in the first place. It was a stupid thing to fall out over, in her opinion, but she sensed that there was more behind it than just one poorly phrased compliment.

Almost as if he could hear her thoughts, Cullen spoke up. “Evelyn.”

Evelyn spun around to face him. “Yes?”

“This is – I mean to say, you have my sincere gratitude,” he told her. His knuckles were white around the rim of the basin.

“Oh.” Her face fell slightly, and she gave him a smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes. “You’re very welcome, Cullen.”

He looked confused, then a bit distressed by her reaction. “I only meant –”

“It’s fine.”

Ciri sighed. They’d sort it out themselves, or not at all. It certainly wasn’t her business.

“Rest up and get well soon,” she told Cullen and Ser Rylen. “Cullen, I’ll see you back in the War Room next week. No sooner than that. I want you to rest after this. Triss, if you need food delivered –”

“We already have a runner bringing our meals,” Triss said. “Go. Get to whatever it is you have to do.”

Ciri left the mages and ailing Templars behind and headed across the grassy courtyard to the steps leading to the main hall. She hoped she hadn’t pushed Solas too far earlier. His thoughts on a world without the Veil were troubling, and the way he held himself apart concerned her. His statement, too, that a ‘rare person’ might use the chrysoprase discs to shape or alter the Veil in some manner rang faint alarm bells.

But she wouldn’t borrow trouble just yet. Not without knowing what Leliana’s agent found in Solas’ village.

Malika Cadash and Thom Rainier loitered just beyond the doors of the main hall as she entered, and Malika greeted her quietly. Rainier hung back, his eyes wary.

“Your Handiness,” the scout said pleasantly enough. “You got a moment?”

Ciri paused and looked at them. Malika’s friendliness seemed to cover an edge of unease, and Rainier looked close to bolting. _Leliana’s talk paid off sooner than I expected_.

“I will soon,” she said. “I’m having Servis – the mage we captured in the Western Approach – brought up to be judged.”

“Ah. Gonna –” Malika ran her thumb over her throat and made a gruesome face.

Rainier paled.

“No.” An idea came to Ciri, and she leaned in to speak to them quietly. “I’m clearing the hall for this judgment, but you two can stay if you’re quiet. There will be no executions today, I promise.”

Malika and Rainier exchanged a long look, and Rainier nodded.

“Aye,” he said gruffly. “We’ll stay.”

Ciri nodded back and went in search of Josephine. She didn’t have to look far. Her friend was at her desk as usual, humming to herself as she read through a stack of paperwork. A small vase of vivid orange blossoms crowned the corner of her desk, a soft, sweet fragrance wafting from their petals.

“In a good mood?” Ciri asked.

Josephine stopped humming at once and looked up with a faint blush, smiling brightly. “Oh! I didn’t hear you come in. What can I do for you?”

“I need Crassius Servis brought up from the dungeon and the main hall cleared of onlookers. Scout Malika and Blackwall may stay, however.”

“The Inquisition would benefit from onlookers seeing you render your verdict,” Josephine objected. “They’ll carry the tale back home or to their patrons, and word of your wisdom and fairness will spread. If you do this in secret, all they’ll have to share is rumors and gossip.”

“This one needs to be handled differently,” Ciri said.

She was certain of it after spending three weeks traveling back to Skyhold with Servis tied up in a cart, removing his gag to let him eat at mealtimes.

“He performs to an audience,” she explained. “If we take that away, we’ll have him off balance. Perhaps we may get some sincerity out of him yet.”

“Hm. You may have a point,” Josephine agreed reluctantly. “I did read Leliana’s scouts’ report on his activities in the Western Approach, and the addendum you made regarding Dorian’s contribution about Servis’ past. Very well. I’ll see to it at once.”

She rose from her armchair and brushed the nonexistent wrinkles from the front of her sleeveless coat. “If you could go wait in the throne, I’ll have him brought to you in fifteen minutes, no more than that.”

As Josephine turned to leave, Ciri called after her. “I’m glad you’re happy, Josephine.”

Josephine smiled brilliantly back. “So am I.”

* * *

Ciri still couldn’t get comfortable in the throne. She shifted minutely to relieve the strain it put on her back. She was almost tempted to slouch in it but for the thought of how appalled her grandmother would be if she did. Just below the dais, Josephine stood with her ever-present clipboard, her quill flying as she made last-minute notes.

At the table several feet away, Malika waited at Rainier’s side, both of them silent and watchful. Malika drummed her heels against the floor quietly and rested her hand atop Rainier’s. He leaned close to her to whisper something, and she shook her head and whispered back, tightening her grip on his hand.

All four of them looked to the end of the hall as the doors banged open. Two armed guards marched Crassius Servis down the empty hall to the foot of the throne and bowed shallowly.

Servis bobbed his head, a faintly sardonic look in his eyes. “I’d bow properly, too, but –” He held up his manacled hands.

Josephine cleared her throat. “The court identifies you as Crassius Servis of the Minrathous School of Magi, formerly Tribune Servis of the Venatori. Is this correct?”

“To the best of my knowledge,” Servis agreed, still sardonic and too at ease. His robes were rumpled and dirty from his time in the dungeons, and his hair was unwashed, but he didn’t look like he’d been deprived of food or sleep.

“Messere Servis, the charges against you are quite serious,” Josephine said. She flicked a glance down at her clipboard. “Serving Corypheus in a leadership role and holding men in slavery within the borders of the Orlesian Empire. You _also_ used your connections to smuggle magical artifacts out of the Approach – without your master’s knowledge.”

Servis’ lips thinned at Josephine’s wording. “That was pretty clever of me, wasn’t it?” he said, darkly amused. “Still, all gone now.”

He was closing off, withdrawing. They needed to head that off. 

Ciri leaned forward. “No, you don’t have a master, do you? You’re a free man.”

“Free as the wind.” Servis tried to spread his hands and failed. He gave her a rueful smirk. “Or I was.”

“And as a free man of Tevinter, naturally the state of slavery is of little interest to you,” Ciri continued. “What does Crassius Servis, a man as free as the wind, care for the _servorum_ of the Venatori?”

His smirk disappeared at once, and his eyes hardened. “Altus Pavus has been telling tales.”

“Dorian says you must have been exceptionally talented to gain a spot at your Circle of Magi,” Ciri said. “And quite hard-working to have a position of authority in the Venatori.”

“Oh, I’m just a typical laetan overachiever, Inquisitor,” he dismissed. He cocked his head at Ciri, his eyes still hard. “‘ _Servorum_.’ That’s polite of you. You know most people in Tevinter would say ‘ _mancipium_.’ Less polite than ‘ _famulum,_ ’ but that’s practically euphemistic.”

Ciri hadn't realized there were multiple words for 'slave' in Tevene. It made sense that Hawke would learn one of the less offensive ones from Fenris.

“What were you smuggling the artifacts for?” she asked, changing the subject.

“I had…family obligations,” Servis said, looking away. “The Venatori was only ever a means to an end. Demon armies, a darkspawn magister from ancient times, ‘restoring the glory of old Tevinter?’” He grimaced. “I’m no fanatic. I wanted information, and I wanted money. I’ve lost the latter, and you can have the former.”

“Tell me of your family obligations,” Ciri prompted him. “The Inquisition has resources –”

“Not in Tevinter, you don’t,” he interrupted. His mouth twisted into another unhappy smirk. “My grandparents. Silus and Junia Servis. Magister Gallus Therastes holds their bond. I’d hoped to find leverage on him in the Venatori, but his ties there are third-hand at best. He wants a king’s ransom for them. Spite, I assume, since I refused to come back to his household. Even if I called in the debts owed to me back in Tevinter, it wouldn’t be enough. I asked Calpernia for help, but two old, well-treated house slaves weren’t a priority.”

Ciri nodded and made a mental note of the names he’d mentioned. “And the slave warriors in the Approach?”

Servis scoffed. “Three free soporati warriors to every slave, and a mage is worth ten of them in combat. What was I supposed to do, lead the shortest revolt in Tevinter’s history? I joined for my own reasons, Inquisitor, not to advance the cause of abolition in the Imperium. I wasn’t cruel. That had to suffice.”

 _‘Ambitious little worm,'_ the newly freed warrior had called Servis. Ciri better understood why his anger had felt so personal now.

“Crassius Servis, the Inquisition finds you guilty on both the counts of serving the Venatori in a position of authority and of holding men in slavery outside the Imperium,” she said. “Your smuggling offense against the Venatori is not an offense against us and is dismissed. For your work for Corypheus, I sentence you to assist our spymaster in untangling the Venatori’s intelligence network. You’ll offer her every scrap of information you have. You’ll hold nothing back.”

Servis just gave her a cautious look, as if he could tell more was to come.

“For your crimes against the Venatori’s slave warriors, you will also work with Sister Leliana and her agents to find ways to assist the men we freed in the Approach. Intelligence, gold, supplies –”

He laughed incredulously. “Are you trying to start another slave uprising?”

“Right now, my concern is the Venatori,” she told him. Dorian’s words of rebellions being violently quashed made her wary of encouraging one without considering all the risks first.

Servis sighed and shrugged. “Sounds like fun, Inquisitor. Not that I have much of a choice.”

“No. You don’t.” She met his eyes and said more kindly, “Our agents will look into things in Tevinter, Servis. We won’t leave your grandparents enslaved.”

He gave her a jerky nod, and she gestured to the guards to unlock his manacles. “I don’t suppose there’s somewhere I could get a bath around here?” he asked as he rubbed his wrists.

“The guards will show you back to your cell and have hot water and a robe brought down for you,” Ciri said. “It will stay unlocked during the day as a measure of trust. Sister Leliana’s workspace is in the rookery, just through that door and up the stairs past the library. I’ll ask that you refrain from wandering too freely without supervision.”

“I’m sure I can withstand the temptation,” Servis said. He offered her a florid bow, drawing his hands out to his sides with graceful flourishes. He looked up at her, still bent over, and smirked. “See? A proper bow.”

Ciri waved him and the guards off with a roll of her eyes. “Court is adjourned; that will be all.”

She stayed in her uncomfortable throne until the main hall’s doors closed behind Servis, then stood, sighing quietly.

“A gentler punishment than he deserved, perhaps,” Josephine observed. “A man with no loyalties will not feel he is doing penance by working against his former employers.”

“Perhaps,” Ciri agreed. Privately she wondered if she’d have been half as lenient if Dorian hadn’t given her that bit of insight into Servis’ surname earlier. “But whatever the case, the choice is made. Will you please tell Leliana to set him to work tracking down those magical artifacts he smuggled? I don’t want those out there in strange hands. Who knows who he sold them to?”

“A good point,” Josephine said. “I’ll bring it up to her.”

“Thank you.” Ciri gave her a smile. “Will Owain and I see you and Olgierd at supper?”

“We wouldn’t miss it.”

Ciri left her with a quiet goodbye and walked over to the sole occupied table. Malika and Rainier rose to greet her.

“Nicer than I expected,” Malika said. “But you did that with old Alexius, too, and you sent off that Avvar chieftain without making him pay for the goat-chucking or what his son did. Got a soft spot for troublemakers, Your Handiness?”

“I must,” Ciri teased her lightly. “What else could explain your place here in the Inquisition?”

“Ouch. Hey, so that talk…”

“Follow me to the War Room,” Ciri said. She searched Rainier’s face; though uneasy, he no longer showed any sign of wishing to turn tail and leave. “We’ll have privacy there.”

“As you wish,” Rainier said.

They trailed behind her as she led the way through the door to Josephine’s office and beyond that. She opened the small door set into one of the great double doors of the War Room and ushered them through ahead of her, closing it firmly behind her as she entered.

She turned to face them and waited. Rainier dropped his gaze to his boots, his hand coming up to rub at his scar. Malika gave him a look of encouragement, then a gentle nudge in the ribs with her elbow.

“Come on, handsome.”

“Did you have something on your mind, Blackwall?” Ciri asked.

“Aye, I do.” He looked back up at her, frowning. “It’s been weighing on me since Crestwood, since our talk after we fought the wyvern together. Your honesty shamed me. And you praised me as a Warden, as a brave man.”

“I did say that,” Ciri agreed.

“It shamed me,” he repeated. “Inquisitor. I’m not a brave man. Not a good one, either, for that matter.”

The last time Olgierd had told her he wasn’t a good man, she’d shoved him. Ciri didn’t think laying hands on Rainier would be quite as effective. But the refrain was a familiar one.

“No?” she asked. “I must have misremembered Haven, then, for I thought I recalled you standing with me against the red Templars when the village burned. It must have been some other brave man who volunteered to ride ahead to the Western Approach to aid Stroud, and it must have been him, not you, who took an injury to his face when he stood against demons and a blood mage. It certainly couldn’t have been you who accompanied me through Adamant Fortress and into the Fade itself –”

“I did those things, aye,” he said. “But a Warden’s past –” Malika cleared her throat and elbowed him again. “ _My_ past – is shameful.”

“We all have things in our past we aren’t proud of,” Ciri told him. She nodded to Malika. “Organized crime, for instance.”

“Guilty as charged,” Malika said cheerfully. Her hand snuck up to twist into the back of Rainier’s gambeson.

Rainier shook his head. “Anything Malika did is paltry compared to my crimes.”

“Why don’t you allow me to be the judge of that?” Ciri suggested. “You keep dancing around it. What could you have done that’s so bad?”

“Be the judge of it, hm?” Rainier chuckled humorlessly. “Will I get the same leniency as that Venatori mage?”

Ciri already knew but she asked anyway. “None of what you did took place during the Inquisition?”

“No, it was years ago.”

“Then I don’t see how it’s something I could officially judge you for, anyway.”

It was a frail, hypocritical excuse; Mayor Dedrick’s decade-old crime hadn’t stopped the Inquisition from arresting him. But she’d been just as unhappy with that dilemma as she was with Rainier’s, and more than glad to pass it off to King Alistair and his verdict of mercy.

“It’s alright,” Malika said to him, her voice soft.

Rainier straightened his spine and met her eyes squarely. “My name. It’s not Gordon Blackwall. It’s Thom Rainier. I’m a murderer.”

“Thank you for telling me,” Ciri said gently.

“Maker’s balls,” Rainier swore. He turned away, running his hand through his hair in distress. “Maker’s _bloody_ balls!” He swung back around, his eyes wide. “You knew!”

In response, Ciri pulled Leliana’s small scroll from her belt pouch and passed it to him. “I knew. I had Leliana investigate after we returned from the Western Approach the first time. Rainier –”

He flinched.

“Thom,” she tried again. “You didn’t know things that Stroud knew. You didn’t fight like Stroud did, couldn’t sense darkspawn as he did. I had to look into it.”

He read the scroll and swore again. “You know everything, then. Why the song and dance? Why get Malika to convince me to come clean to you?”

Malika looked up at him, her moss-green eyes grave. “We’re tangling with Orlesian politics now, handsome. The Nightingale’s intelligence has our next foray out to the Exalted Plains, where soldiers in either army might recognize you. You’re a wanted man. I want you safe. That means telling Her Handiness so she can figure things out.”

Rainier wrapped a loose strand of her auburn hair around his finger as his eyes lost their wild look. “Minx,” he said, very quietly. He looked at Ciri and sighed. “Now what?”

“I don’t know everything, in fact,” she said. “I know Ser Robert Chapuis hired you to kill Lord Vincent Callier for Grand Duke Gaspard, and I know you and your men murdered his family and fled once the crime was discovered. What I don’t understand is why you killed his wife and children as well.”

“And the carriage driver,” Rainier added grimly. “Chapuis gave me the information for when and where Lord Callier would be traveling. He told me nothing about his family. I gathered my men and told them we had a special task – secret, just for us. They trusted me. Of course they did, the loyal bastards.

“When we got closer to the carriage, we could hear children singing. I knew then. But –” He grimaced. “The men didn’t know what our orders really were. If I’d signaled a retreat, they’d have known I’d led them into something foul. And the money Chapuis promised me was enough to set me up for life back in the Free Marches. So I kept quiet.”

“Instead of letting your men suspect you might be betraying the Empress, you turned them into traitors as well,” Ciri said quietly. “Traitors, and child-killers.”

“Good, loyal men paid for my cowardice,” Rainier spat. “They paid for my greed. We all have innocent blood on our hands, and I’m the bastard who put it there.”

Ciri couldn’t disagree with that assessment. But she also couldn’t bring herself to condemn him entirely, not when she called Olgierd her friend. Not when she had banditry in her past, and killers for comrades as a teenager.

“How did you end up taking on the real Blackwall’s identity?” Ciri asked.

Rainier stiffened. “He found me in a tavern in Churneau. I’d traded blows with the village drunks – made them leave the barmaid alone. Came to find out they were the local militia. Blackwall was one of the tavern patrons. He was impressed enough to recruit me.”

“And then?”

“We traveled together a while. Went out to the Storm Coast. He told me I needed darkspawn blood for something, a secret Grey Warden ritual of some sort. I gathered it, but we were ambushed by more of the monsters. He took a blow for me. Died.” Rainier shook his head. “I let Thom Rainier die on that coast. Better a good man live than a murderous traitor. Blackwall walked away.”

“Why not pretend you’d died in the ambush as well?” she asked. “You didn’t have to take his identity. No one would have looked for you.”

“Blackwall was a good man,” Rainier said. “A hero. The world needed him. And I – I wanted to be better.”

“But you couldn’t as yourself,” Ciri pressed.

“No.”

“Let me see if I understand this correctly,” Ciri said, stifling the urge to rub her forehead. “You felt you could only do good as Warden Blackwall? That Thom Rainier was too tainted to redeem?”

Rainier stared at her, as if he hadn’t heard it put so simply before. “Aye, that’s the long and short of it.”

“And it had nothing to do with the fact that you’d be hunted under your own name?”

“Well.” His ruddy cheeks darkened beneath his beard. “That played a part.”

Ciri sighed. “Is there any truth to what I’ve heard? Grey Wardens can’t be prosecuted for crimes committed before they joined the order?”

“That’s true enough,” Rainier confirmed. “I hinted around to Blackwall, and he told me all would be forgotten once I became a Warden.”

“And if you could go back to that moment before you attacked the carriage, what would you do?”

“Call my men off,” he said at once. “Let Lord Callier go. Put myself between their blades and his family if I had to.” He shook his head. “What does it matter? It’s done, Inquisitor. My regrets can’t change the past.”

 _“I am a man drowning in regret,”_ Olgierd had told Ciri once. _“But regrets won’t bring anyone back to life, now, will they?”_

“It matters to me,” Ciri told him.

No one would fault her for turning him over to Orlais and taking matters out of her hands. It would be justice if she did so. She could even, if she chose, execute him for what he’d done. Lord Callier and his wife and children, and the innocent carriage driver, surely deserved recompense.

And yet he was a comrade in arms. Brave and stout-hearted, self-sacrificing at times, desperately trying to live up to a dead man’s good name. Olgierd had told her from the start of ‘Blackwall’s’ self-loathing. There was a stark difference between a penitent man and an unrepentant murderer.

She wasn’t sure it was the right choice at all, but looking at Rainier and Malika standing before her, she couldn’t bring herself to make any other.

“I want you to go to Soldier’s Peak,” she said. “I’ll send a raven ahead of you. Join the Wardens properly this time. Come back when you’re ready. Under your name or Blackwall’s, whichever you’re more comfortable using.”

“I thought –” Rainier slumped against the table and raised his trembling hand to his face again. “I half expected I’d be walking out of here in chains.”

“You were already recruited to the Grey Wardens,” Ciri said. “It’s time to follow through on that.”

“This feels like cheating,” he muttered.

“It is,” Ciri said, flat and hard. “Seven people won’t get justice, and you’ll continue to live free. But I told you I won’t judge you for what you did before the Inquisition started, and I truly think you’ve turned over a new leaf since the real Warden Blackwall died. Go to Soldier’s Peak. Join the Wardens. Live up to whatever it was that Warden Blackwall saw in you, and never forget what your second chance cost.”

“I won’t forget,” Rainier promised. “I can’t.”

“Well!” Malika spoke up. “Guess it’s time for us to pack and hit the road.”

Rainier looked down at her, his heavy eyebrows lifting in curiosity. “Us?”

“You think I’m letting you do this on your own?” Malika asked. “You’ll get all gloomy without me. Or fall in love with some cute lady Warden and replace me. And we still have half of ‘Obeying Her Order’ and all of ‘Dreams of Desire’ to try out in the hayloft.”

Rainier flushed and laughed shakily. “Ah, Malika. I don’t think anyone could replace you.”

“I’ll make your excuses, though you should say goodbye to Sera yourself,” Ciri told Rainier. “Malika, speak with Leliana before you leave so she knows to hand your responsibilities off to someone else. Will you be leaving today or tomorrow?”

Malika and Rainier exchanged a look, and Rainier said, “This afternoon. Best not to put it off.”

“Safe travels, then. I hope to see you both back here again someday.”

“Come on, handsome,” Malika said as she tugged at Rainier’s hand. “The faster we pack, the faster we can get going.”

Rainier paused at the door and turned back to face Ciri, his face troubled but grateful. “Inquisitor. I don’t know if it’s the right thing to do. But thank you.”

The door closed behind him, leaving Ciri alone with her thoughts.

_I don’t know if it was the right thing to do either. But I must believe it was._


	49. Compassion and Visitors

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Olgierd gets an early morning wake-up from Cole, who has something on his mind. An old friend of Varric's shows up looking for help...and that's not the last unexpected arrival.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> beta-read by brightspot149. Thank you!

The foot of Olgierd’s bed dipped with a sudden weight, and he sat up, blinking hard in the dim, pre-dawn light. Cole blinked back, his pale, ghostly eyes nearly luminous beneath the ragged brim of his hat.

“What brings you here at this hour?” Olgierd asked with a yawn. He leaned over to the candle on the bedside table and summoned a flame to his fingertip to light the wick.

“You’ve bound demons before,” Cole said. “A cat for her lap, a dog for her feet, and a caretaker for the manor.”

Olgierd scrubbed roughly at his face. “Always a pleasure to be reminded of my sins before I’m fully awake.”

“Oh.” Cole hunched in on himself. “That wasn’t a good memory. Let me try again.”

“Cole,” Olgierd said with patience he didn’t feel, “it’s not yet dawn. What’s this about?”

He slipped out from under the covers and crossed to the table against the far wall where a large, shallow bowl of water sat, and he splashed his face with its frigid contents. Beard and loose hair dripping, he turned back to the spirit sitting cross-legged on the end of his bed.

Cole looked like he was thinking hard. After a moment, he perked up and said, “You could bind me!”

_“Absolutely not.”_

“But you have to!” Cole insisted.

Olgierd cast a longing look at his pillow. Sleep would be a fine thing. He’d been having a perfectly nice dream of riding his old courser along the Yaruga, not a soul in sight save a few fishermen. Better a dream free of the spirit who’d replaced Vlod again than the abysmal nonsense Cole had brought him at this hour, stirring up ugly memories of things he’d put behind him.

“There’s naught I need to tell you of my past, is there?” Olgierd asked. “You can pluck the thoughts right out of a man’s head. You know where we’re from, Ciri, Triss, and I.”

Cole nodded silently.

“Well then.” Olgierd sat beside Cole. The cold water trickled down the front of his nightshirt unpleasantly. “Let’s set aside that goetia may not even work on the spirits and demons here in Thedas. I’ll not bend your will to my own. You belong to yourself.”

“Not if _they_ do it!” Cole cried. “The demons at Adamant belonged to themselves before the binding. Spells that smother, silencing thought, making us into weapons. _They_ could do it to me, too, use me to hurt you!”

“Ah.”

Olgierd understood him now. The blood magic that the Warden mages had used to summon and bind demons must have frightened Cole badly.

“Why not mention this to Ciri when you first learned of it?” he asked. “Or on our journey back from Adamant?”

Cole dug his fingers into the blanket, twisting and pulling anxiously. “I didn’t see them then,” he said, his eyes wide and worried. “You were too sad to talk before. Dark and desolate, ‘How many more losses must I suffer?’ You’re better now. I can ask.”

Olgierd took a moment to let the sting of Cole’s words ease. _‘How many losses,’_ indeed. The spirit was right. He was better, and for Cole's sake, he’d have patience for this folly.

“I understand you’re frightened,” Olgierd told Cole. “But asking a friend to suborn your will just so an enemy might not get the chance is a foolish thought.”

Cole’s fingers left the blanket and snuck into his hair to make messy fists beneath his hat. “I can’t – I – walls around what I want. Blocking, bleeding, making me a monster –”

“Cole!” Olgierd set his hand on the spirit’s thin shoulder. “No one will make you a monster.”

“It will work,” Cole said, looking at him beseechingly. “Summoning circles, focused magic, ritual intent. Different demons, same Art. You _could._ ”

“Yes, but I won’t. Come now, surely there’s another option. Would Solas know of a solution?”

“Solas knows a lot of things,” Cole said. “Maybe?”

“Then why don’t we see to it that someone else suffers this miserable hour with us, and seek him out?” Olgierd suggested as he stood again. He looked down at his nightshirt and frowned. “Would you care to wait outside for me?”

“…No?” Cole said, a note of uncertainty in his voice. “I wouldn’t care.”

And now he’d gone and confused the boy. “Suit yourself,” he sighed. “I’ll need a moment to put myself to rights.”

He pulled his walnut brown robe and cream under-robe from the wardrobe and knelt to get underclothes and his dark gray sash and trousers from the drawer below. Cole made a soft sound of surprise as he drew his nightshirt over his head.

“It comes off?” he asked, and then, quieter, “A lot of people hurt you.”

“I hurt them as well.”

He dressed quickly while Cole looked on curiously. His leather hair tie dropped in his empty hand as soon as he finished tying his sash in place.

“It gets in your eyes,” Cole said, peering at him through the pale blond strands that fell across his face.

Olgierd hid his smile and nodded to him in thanks. “That it does.”

With his hair bound back and his feet shoved in his boots, he retrieved his belt from where it hung over the back of the room’s sole wooden chair and secured it around his waist. Lastly, he draped his livery collar around his neck and affixed his handful of rings to his fingers.

Cole still stared in curiosity, so he spread his arms out to his sides, feeling a tinge of amusement. “How do I look?”

“Ciri thinks you look gentler than when she met you,” Cole said. “Josephine thinks you’re handsome. Her stomach flutters when you smile. ‘Maker, his eyes are like the sea! How can a bearded face feel so soft? And his hands –’”

“That’ll do, thanks,” Olgierd interrupted. He ought to have known better than to ask Cole his opinion. “Come along, and blow the candle out, will you?”

The sky outside was the deep blue of early twilight. The horizon’s edges were just barely turning a dim pink. They strode along the walkway toward the rooms nearer the gardens, their footsteps and the crickets down in the garden below the only sounds breaking the pre-dawn silence. Olgierd felt a faint pang of conscience as he knocked lightly on Solas’ door. If he’d been enjoying his sleep, then Solas, as a Dreamer, would surely hate to be awakened.

No one answered, and he knocked again, slightly harder.

“Solas stirred from sleep already, pulled to paint,” Cole said helpfully. “He’s not in there.”

 _Patience,_ Olgierd reminded himself _._ “Then we’ll check the rotunda.”

Solas was indeed down in the rotunda, standing on a footstool as he sketched out the next panel of his mural in faint lines. Olgierd could see a Grey Warden’s shield lightly outlined, as well as the towers and crenellations of a fortress. Beside them, a line bisected the scene, and jagged cliffs covered the bottom half while a large orb filled the top.

“I see I’m not the only early riser today,” Solas said in greeting. He stepped off the footstool and walked over to the table in the center of the room to set down his tools. “How can I be of service?”

“He won’t bind me!” Cole said at once. “I asked, but he won’t!”

Olgierd held up his hands defensively as Solas turned a narrow-eyed glare at him. “I’ll not do it. We came to you for better options.”

“Olgierd wouldn’t make me hurt innocent people,” Cole said, his hands reaching for his hair again. “I don’t want to hurt innocent people again.”

“Cole,” Solas said firmly. “Calm yourself. I know that you are distressed, but can you not sense the emotions around you? How does Olgierd feel about your request?”

Cole stopped and slowly looked over at Olgierd with wide, unhappy eyes. “Oh. I _hurt_ you. ‘She called it monstrous, yet she forgave me nonetheless.’ Peace in her presence, a monster no longer –’”

“Hush,” Olgierd ordered him. He kept his voice gentle. “You didn’t deal me a mortal wound. It was only a question, and I gave you my answer.”

Cole still looked unhappy. “I can try again,” he offered. “Make you forget.” He paused. “I can help you forget what hurts.”

Forget? Forget his sins against Vlod, against Iris and her family? Forget his marauding through helpless peasant villages at the head of the Wild Ones? Forget his decades with a heart of stone?

Forget what drove him to O’Dimm in the first place?

For just the briefest moment, temptation nearly overwhelmed him. _To start anew…_

 _And yet._ He was not the same man he’d been before he’d met the Witcher at Lilvani’s temple and regained his heart, nor yet the same man who’d drifted aimlessly for three and a half years after that in a haze of sorrow and loss. He was hardly even the same man who’d ventured through the abandoned portal with Ciri and Triss after Belleteyn.

He had no need to forget. Without his past, he’d not be the man he was now.

“Nay,” he said when he found his voice. “It’s a kind offer. But it’s best that I remember my past. I earned those lessons, and they’re not ones I’d easily relinquish.”

Solas gave him a measured look. “You cannot help everyone forget their pain, Cole. Now, why did you wish to be bound?”

“The Warden mages summoned spirits,” Cole said. “Bound them in blood, took them and turned them. They could do it to me, too, make me hurt people! I don’t want to hurt people!”

“I told him you’d have a better idea than me binding him to keep an enemy from doing it,” Olgierd told Solas.

“And I do,” Solas said. “The Rivaini seers to the north work with spirits and respect their personhood. There are amulets they give their spirit companions that can prevent them from being bound and abused. A spirit wearing such an amulet would have no cause to fear the magic the Warden mages wielded.”

“You see?” Olgierd asked Cole. “Isn’t that a better solution?”

Cole nodded hard, the wide brim of his ragged hat flopping up and down with the movement. “Yes. When can we get one?”

“Ciri will need to reach out with the Inquisition’s contacts –” Solas began.

Cole disappeared with the tiniest puff of smoke, and Olgierd let his face drop into his hand as he chuckled.

“That’s another to fall victim to his early morning enthusiasm. Let’s hope she doesn’t have her swain in her bed.”

“His urgency is understandable,” Solas said, but he too looked briefly amused before sobering. “It can be disconcerting to listen to your innermost thoughts being spoken aloud. I won’t reveal what Cole said to anyone, though if you ever wish to speak of it…” He paused and met Olgierd’s eyes. “Ciri wanted me to get to know you better. Should you like to discuss books or magic, or join me for chess sometime, I would enjoy the company.”

Solas seemed much older for a moment, his eyes ancient in his unlined face. They were the eyes of a man who had regrets of his own, Olgierd thought. He would do him the courtesy of not prying.

“Josephine and I usually break our fast together, but she won’t be awake for some time yet,” he said. “There’s a book on Avvar folklore I just finished reading before our journey to Adamant Fortress. Do you know much about their beliefs?”

Solas smiled and turned to walk to the low bench along the wall of the rotunda. He beckoned Olgierd to join him. “I’m familiar with their myths. Did the book go into much detail about any theories on the origins of their gods?”

“They were stories, nothing more,” Olgierd said as he settled beside Solas. “I take it there’s an interesting tale there?”

"Perhaps a few," Solas said. "I have some myself if you'd like to hear them."

“Gladly.”

He smiled as Solas’ eyes warmed, and the usually aloof elf began to speak with the tones of an enthusiastic Oxenfurt lecturer.

Perhaps he’d rather be abed. But a tentative new friend was a fine thing to find in place of an extra hour of sleep.

* * *

“Lady Ciri!” Raúl hailed her from his seat at the table in the main hall, comfortably ensconced next to Rona and across from Owain.

She joined the trio of former Templars with a cheerful greeting. Owain scooted down a bit to make room for her, and they both laughed a little as their eyes met, remembering their rude awakening at Cole’s hands.

“Shouldn’t you three be in the infirmary?” she asked.

“Tomorrow,” Rona said. “Maker knows they’d keep working ‘til they fell over if we didn’t insist they take a break.”

“It’s work to be proud of, but when Evie’s in the middle of a project she’s not the best at judging when she needs sleep,” Owain said. He grinned. “She and Maxwell would get in trouble as children for staying up late reading by candlelight.”

“So did Clemence,” Rona said. Her face took on a distant, unhappy cast. “Used to, anyway. Tranquil don’t read for pleasure. But he doesn’t take breaks if he’s not reminded to, either.”

Raúl clasped her on the shoulder in sympathy. “Maybe that can be the next miracle the three of them pull off? First a cure for lyrium addiction, next a cure for Tranquility? There were rumors of one a few years ago.”

“Maybe.” Rona seemed doubtful.

“On the bright side, you have him back,” Owain said gently. “That’s more than you had for years.”

Rona hesitated, then nodded in grudging agreement.

Ciri slipped her hand into Owain’s beneath the table and changed the subject slightly. “Did any of you see Cullen or Ser Rylen after they left the infirmary?”

“I did,” Raúl volunteered. “They were weak as kittens, both of them, and paler than our dear Rona here, but they walked out on their own two feet. I think they’re sleeping off the experience back in their quarters.”

“Triss said it will go easier for the three of you since you stopped taking lyrium years ago,” Ciri said.

“‘Easier’ does not mean ‘easy,’ _bellissima_ ,” Raúl said dryly.

“I’m not looking forward to the process,” Owain said. “But being free of the headaches and the muscle cramps? If they’d come to me two years ago and told me I had to crawl through hot coals to cure myself, I might have done it.”

Raúl clutched his chest. “And scar up that handsome face?”

“Ass,” Owain retorted with a laugh.

“This does put the Inquisition at an advantage,” Rona said. She drummed her fingers on the table, her face thoughtful. “Even if the Circles come back, which I doubt, Templars can’t be leashed again. Not by the Chantry, not by anyone. And we’re the only ones with the cure. Those red Templars and the ones who stayed apart are stuck taking it or muddling through on their own.”

“It makes me wonder if the red Templars can even be cured,” Ciri said quietly. “They feel different to me, and the way their bodies react to red lyrium is…unnerving.”

“We probably know some of those poor bastards,” Raúl said. “Starkhaven sent their Templars everywhere when the Circle burned down, and Andraste only knows where the rest of the Markham Templars ended up.”

“Don’t waste your pity on them,” Rona advised Ciri. “They could have done the right thing and left. Fuckwits stayed to hunt mages instead. Now they’re paying for it.”

Owain sighed. Ciri got the feeling this was a recurring argument. "I'm one of the last people who'd champion the Order, but that's a broad brush to tar them with. Some of them just stayed for the lyrium. Some were given to the Order as children and had nowhere else to go – and bought into the teachings since they were raised in them."

“And the rest?” Rona countered, crossing her arms.

“Fuckwits,” Raúl agreed easily.

Rona laughed.

“Poor bastards,” he said again, more seriously. “Whatever their reasons for staying, being turned into horrors is a high price to pay for loyalty.” He nudged her with his shoulder. “If the Trevelyans hadn’t opened their home to us and the mages, where would we be, do you think?”

“Not _there_!”

Owain squeezed Ciri’s hand beneath the table and looked away from the argument. She watched him scan the hall, and she tilted her head in curiosity as his eyes caught on something closer to the doors.

“Tethras has a visitor I don’t recognize,” he said. “Looks like an intense conversation.”

Ciri peered down the hall toward the table Varric had claimed by the fireplace. Sure enough, there was a stranger visiting, a dwarven woman. She was hooded and dressed fairly conservatively despite her trousers. What little Ciri could see of her face was pale, with a dramatically bright slash of lip color. As she watched, the woman’s red lips curled into a coy smile, and her body curved toward Varric – half-invitation, half-tease.

Varric only seemed partially aware of the flirtation. He looked serious, uneasy, even.

“After all that mess with Josephine, I’m not sure I’m keen on strangers,” Ciri said. “And by Varric’s own account, most of the people he knows are trouble.”

She pressed a quick kiss to Owain’s cheek and stood again, bidding the others farewell.

“– Am the expendable one, after all,” Varric was saying to the woman as Ciri walked up behind them.

“Aw, don’t worry, I’ll protect you,” the woman teased. Her voice was as coy as her smile, rich and low. “We just have to –” She looked up as Ciri’s shadow fell across them, and Ciri was the next recipient of her red smile. “My, what a surprise. No one ever needs to introduce you, I’d bet. Not with those looks. You’re the Inquisitor.”

Ciri gave her an equally pleasant smile. “Introduce me to your charming friend, Varric.”

“No need, I can do the honors myself,” the woman said. “Bianca Davri, at your service.”

Ciri raised her eyebrows at that, and Varric rubbed the back of his neck and looked away. “What a lovely name.”

“My parents did me a favor,” Bianca said, still smiling. “I could have been a Helga like half the girls in the Merchants’ Guild. I lucked out.”

Bianca was a pretty woman, with fine features and big blue-green eyes. She had a deft hand with cosmetics, too, kohl on her eyelashes and soft rouge on her cheeks as well as the red staining her lips. She held herself with the confidence of a sorceress of the Continent.

 _And her name is Bianca. Most curious_.

“It’s a pleasure,” Ciri said. She looked between the two and added, “Is something the matter? Your conversation looked more than a bit intense from where I was sitting.”

“Tell her, Bianca,” Varric said when Bianca stayed silent. To Ciri, he said, “She’s risking a lot being here. Not just for herself. Maybe for both of us.”

“The Merchants’ Guild has bigger things to worry about than us,” Bianca said, laughing lightly.

Varric shook his head and looked at Ciri. “She has a lead on where the red lyrium’s coming from.”

“The thaig Varric found, Bartrand’s Folly? The site has been leaked,” Bianca said.

Ciri glanced at Varric, but he hadn’t seemed to notice Bianca’s carefully passive wording. She dismissed it after a moment, deciding it was nothing more than an over-active imagination.

“Go on,” she said.

“There’s a Deep Roads entrance in the Hinterlands stuffed with strange humans and Carta dwarves,” Bianca continued. “They’re hauling red lyrium out in buckets. Completely unprotected.”

“The thaig from your book? I thought that entrance was closer to Kirkwall,” Ciri said.

"That’s the one we took to get there then, but it got blocked off from the inside," Varric said. "The Deep Roads are all connected, or they used to be. Cave-ins, darkspawn, and other hazards mean that when a safe path is found, people stick to it. The Hinterlands one might not be the only entrance, but it'll be the only one they're using."

Ciri nodded. “And who do you think leaked the location?”

Varric frowned. “It could have been one of the hirelings from the expedition. There’s no way Hawke or Blondie would have breathed a word. Maybe Junior, by accident – the Wardens have gotten involved with Corypheus before.”

“How they found out isn’t important,” Bianca asserted. “What matters is we know about it now.”

Ciri’s prickle of suspicion came back to itch at her again. “How did you know about it if it was so secret, Bianca?”

“I told her,” Varric said, his voice subdued. “When Hawke, Blondie, and I got back to Kirkwall, I wrote to her and told her what we found down there. I’d picked up artifacts, and she had contacts to secure buyers for me. Besides, I owed her.”

The look in Varric’s eyes said he both understood the question and didn’t want to acknowledge its implications. Bianca, on the other hand, stood calm and confident.

“I’m assuming this entrance is by Lake Luthias?” Ciri asked Bianca.

“It is.” Bianca looked surprised. “You’re a step ahead of me, Inquisitor. How did you know?”

“One of our mercenary companies saw Carta dwarves near there, and they cleared out a fortress with other mercenaries working with the Carta in Hafter's Woods. We didn't prioritize it, but we have the key to the entrance," Ciri said. "If that's where the red lyrium is coming from, we should address it as soon as possible."

There was something about this she distrusted, but the jagged spires and growths of red lyrium crystals that blotted the landscape in the Hinterlands and Crestwood, and that marred the caves in the Western Approach, were troubling. Who knew how far it would spread if she didn’t act? If the red Templars were left with a steady supply, how much trouble would Thedas be in?

Of course, she’d take a few judicious precautions. Better to be prepared and not need to be than to be caught unawares, after all.

“You’ll get no argument here,” Varric said.

Bianca smiled once more. “I’ll head back out to keep an eye on their operations. See you there, Varric.”

She turned to leave, then stopped as the main hall’s doors opened, allowing afternoon sunlight to stream through. The golden light silhouetted two figures, one instantly recognizable as the tall, rangy Hawke. The other was taller, leaner, half concealed in a shapeless cloak with a deep hood.

At Ciri’s side, Varric breathed in sharply. “Oh, _shit_.”

Hawke and her companion looked around the hall for a moment then headed in Varric’s direction as his eyes widened.

“Shit,” he muttered again. “Bianca, go. I’ll see you soon.”

Bianca looked between Varric and the approaching pair, raised her eyebrows, and walked off with a knowing look.

Without sunlight behind him, Ciri could see the man’s face in the deep hood. He was attractive – tired and pale, but still handsome, with dark circles beneath his amber eyes and a prominent nose. He had a short, scruffy, reddish-gold beard that didn’t do much to conceal his face.

“Hello, Varric,” the man said softly. He had a pleasant voice, a warm tenor.

Varric swallowed hard, his hand twitching at his side like he couldn’t decide whether to hit him or pull him in for a hug. “Anders.”

One side of Anders’ mouth tugged up in a sad smile. “Not ‘Blondie’?”

“There are a lot of things I could call you,” Varric said. “Don’t push it.”

Anders nodded. “I understand.” He turned to Ciri, his eyes alight with tentative hope. “Inquisitor. We came to take you up on your offer.”


	50. Anders and Justice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hawke and Anders come to Skyhold to take Ciri up on her offer of separating Anders from Justice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> beta-read by brightspot149. Thank you!

“What offer?” Varric asked. He looked between Ciri, Anders, and Hawke in confusion.

“To separate us,” Anders said quietly. “Justice and I. We –”

He broke off as he looked down the hall, and a sheen of blue-white covered his eyes. _“This place is not safe,”_ Anders declared in ringing tones. _“Templars walk among the people here.”_

Hawke grabbed his arm. “Justice, no. I met them before. They left the Templars. They don’t oppress mages here, I promise. The tall one is even the Inquisitor’s lover.”

Justice glared down at Ciri. _“You consort with the oppressors?”_

“Owain isn’t a Templar,” Ciri said, fighting the urge to glance over her shoulder. Justice’s volume was attracting attention. “He’s a good man. Rona and Raúl are both good people.”

“Anders,” Hawke called gently. “Come back. It’s safe. You know I wouldn’t bring you into a trap.”

Anders’ face contorted into a grimace, and the blue-white sheen receded. “Sorry,” he muttered. He cast a cautious look over Ciri’s shoulder. “We’re a little wary around Templars. Understandably.”

“How could you tell?” Ciri asked. “They don’t even wear the armor anymore.”

“The training shows,” Anders said. “Even just in their posture.”

Ciri turned around to see what he meant. Owain, Rona, and Raúl stared in their direction, their backs straight and shoulders squared, all three leaning forward slightly. Ciri wasn’t sure what Anders saw that meant ‘Templar’ rather than ‘warrior,’ and she was honestly inclined to chalk it up to paranoia and a good guess.

“I’ll need to go talk to them,” she told Anders, half expecting Justice to make another appearance. “Cassandra will need to be kept occupied, and someone will have to double-check that Cullen’s still too tired to interfere.”

“Yes, I heard your Inquisition had Knight-Captain Cullen as its military commander,” Anders said, his voice low and hard. His hands curled into fists at his sides. “I suppose he received a pardon for everything he oversaw at the Kirkwall Circle? The beatings, the rapes, the illegal Tranquility? Or was it just swept under the carpet?”

Varric coughed. “Violent revolutionaries shouldn’t throw stones.”

Anders swung back around to stare down at Varric. “What I did, I did for the good of all mages. One building and a dozen lives were a small price to pay for freedom.”

At Anders’ side, Hawke looked down for a moment as discomfort briefly crossed her face. Ciri felt for her. She’d spoken with such conviction in Crestwood, but the Nightmare’s accusations had clearly taken a toll on her confidence.

Varric lifted an upraised finger, opened his mouth, and then closed it and shook his head. “You know what? Nah. I’m not sticking my nose in this.”

“You’ll want to do this sooner rather than later, I’m guessing,” Ciri said to Anders in an attempt to change the subject.

“If we could be back on the road before nightfall, that would be best,” Hawke said. “We’d rather not stay here when Anders is a wanted man, even with your temporary amnesty.”

“I’ll get things arranged,” Ciri said. “Are you alright waiting with Varric?”

Varric gave Anders a tense smile. “Oh, sure. We can catch up on things. You go work stuff out, Songbird. We’ll be fine here.”

Ciri left the three old friends behind to stand in an uneasy silence and returned to the table with Owain, Rona, and Raúl. Owain rose from the bench as she approached.

“Is that who I think it is?” he asked quietly. Ciri nodded, and he groaned and covered his mouth with his broad hand in worry. “The Commander’s going to kill him.”

“The Commander’s laid up in bed with all the strength of an urchin with consumption,” Raúl countered. “Still, this is…”

“You do know he killed well over two hundred people,” Rona said. “Right?”

“I know,” Ciri said. “The catch is that he doesn’t seem to know that.”

That caught their attention at once.

“You think it’s the possession,” Owain said.

Raúl nodded. “Blank spots in his memory, mood swings, obsessive thoughts, personality changes. It’s possible.”

“Cole said the possession changed him,” Ciri told them. “He didn’t say much, but I got the impression that the man he was before Justice possessed him wasn’t the sort of person who went around blowing up chantries – though he was angry then, too.”

“I don’t know how you’d prosecute that,” Owain said. “Back in the Circles, they’d just kill an abomination, even if there are ways of freeing a mage from possession. And if he’s not competent, he can’t be charged with a crime in Ostwick.”

“Not in Antiva, either,” Raúl added.

“Or Markham,” Rona said. She looked at Ciri seriously. “If you can’t separate them safely, what are you going to do? You realize you might have to kill the spirit to free the man, don’t you? Or drop the amnesty and take him into custody? Extenuating circumstances or not, if you can’t undo his possession, he shouldn’t walk free to kill again.”

“Even if he’s not competent and can’t be held accountable?”

Raúl held up his hands. “Technically insane,” he said, lifting one like he was weighing something in his palm. He lifted the other. “Hundreds dead.”

Ciri shook her head. “We have two different things we can try before we even need to think about killing Justice, and I’d rather not plan for arresting Anders before we’ve even started attempting to help him.”

“That’s the thing, Lady Ciri,” Raúl said. He looked unusually solemn. “With the Commander out of commission, we’re in command of military matters. If it looks like we need to – if he behaves erratically, or you can’t solve his problem – then arresting him may be our only choice.”

Ciri looked up at Owain. Her lover looked somber, and there was no disagreement on his face.

“I understand,” she said, her stomach falling. “But in the meantime, we plan for success. If all goes well –”

“If all goes well, a sane, un-possessed Anders goes free,” Rona said. “Which he shouldn’t. He still blew up a chantry and killed a grand cleric.”

“I’m aware of what he did,” Ciri said. He wouldn’t be the first or even second murderer she let go – and she could still change her mind if new evidence came to light.

Rona shrugged. “Fine. So, what do you need us to do?”

“Someone needs to keep Cassandra from storming in and demanding justice,” Ciri said. “Anders’ control over the spirit slipped when he caught sight of the three of you across the hall. I don’t want to imagine what being accosted by a Seeker might do to him. And Cullen should likewise be kept away.”

“Raúl and Rona can deal with that,” Owain said. “What else?”

"Solas and Olgierd need to be tracked down," Ciri said. "They both know about this, though I'm not sure how much interest or willingness Olgierd has. We'll need a place to do it, too – possibly the new mage tower if Grand Enchanter Fiona will allow it."

Owain nodded. “I’ll go find them for you. The request to use the tower’s space might be better coming from you than from me.”

Ciri thanked them quietly and left to head through the archway to the rotunda and up the spiral stairs to the library. She passed Dorian with a brief wave, Minaeve and Helisma with a nod, and hurried as she spotted the grand enchanter shelving a tome and turning to leave.

“Grand Enchanter?” she called softly.

Grand Enchanter Fiona turned back around and gave Ciri a small but genuine smile. “Inquisitor. It’s always a pleasure to see you. Is there something you need?”

She hadn’t realized the grand enchanter thought so highly of her. They hadn’t spoken since she’d reunited her with King Alistair, and that had been almost three months ago.

“There is,” she said, dropping her voice to a low murmur. “An unexpected visitor came a few minutes ago, someone who’s been possessed for years. I made an offer to attempt to separate him from the spirit he’s hosting without killing either of them – I know it will be difficult, but I believe it can be done.”

Fiona looked curious, and she leaned in and matched Ciri’s volume. “I’ve heard it can be done in theory, though I believe it’s only successful when both the spirit and the mage wish to part. Can you tell me more?”

"He's been possessed for nearly a decade," Ciri said. "I hear he's had personality changes over the years. Some gaps in his memory. His control over the spirit seems somewhat tenuous."

Fiona took that in with a slow nod. “And he hasn’t had any physical changes? He still looks like a person?”

“An ordinary human mage,” Ciri confirmed, “albeit quite pale and thin. I’ve no idea if that’s normal for him or not.”

“Then it may not be too late, despite the length of possession.” Fiona gave her an expectant look. “And does this unfortunate mage have a name?”

Ciri hesitated for a moment. “You have the right to refuse to help.”

“ _Oh_ –” the grand enchanter broke off to swear quietly and vehemently in Orlesian. “Him?” she demanded. “You can’t be serious!”

“He needs help,” Ciri said simply.

Fiona rubbed her forehead with her fingertips, looking weary. “I appreciate what he tried to accomplish, but the way he went about doing it was appalling. Perhaps even unforgivable. But then, he did light the first spark for our rebellion. I’ll give him that much credit.” She sighed. “Very well. We have a new ritual room at the top of the tower that we can use.”

“We?”

“You’re bringing an abomination into the tower among mages whose safety and wellbeing I’m responsible for,” Fiona said. “I will oversee this personally.”

“Thank you,” Ciri said sincerely.

“Don’t thank me yet.”

They went back down the stairs to the main hall together, and Ciri led her over to Varric’s table. The uneasy tension seemed to have dissipated slightly in the several minutes she’d been gone, and Varric was shaking his head and laughing under his breath at something Hawke said as they approached. They looked up at the sound of their footsteps, smiles fading.

“Anders, this is Grand Enchanter Fiona,” Ciri said, gesturing to the formidable mage at her side.

Anders’ eyes widened. “Grand Enchanter. I wasn’t expecting you to be involved. It’s an honor to meet you.”

“I wish I could say the same,” Fiona said evenly. She studied his pale face and the faintest smile touched her lips. “You kicked over quite a hornet’s nest, didn’t you?”

“Something needed to be done,” Anders insisted.

“Something was. The College voted for independence.” The grand enchanter shook her head and beckoned for them all to follow her. “Whatever the case, it’s done. That you’re here means the Inquisitor vouches for you – don’t squander that trust. We’ll see what can be done for you.”

“Where are we going?” Hawke asked, a note of suspicion in her voice.

“To the ritual room in the tower.”

“There’s a _Circle Tower_ here?” Anders asked incredulously. His voice rose as the blue-white sheen crept over his eyes again. _“You oppress yourselves? All that we sacrificed, all that we fought for, and you built your prison again?”_

“Calm yourself, spirit,” Fiona said, her voice steady and cool. “It is a place of our own, for study and magical endeavors. No Templars, current or former, are given leave to set foot within it. No mage is bound to the tower. We come and go at our leisure. This is a victory, not a defeat. _We_ are the architects of our future.”

Anders gripped his head in both hands and groaned. He took a deep, shuddering breath and looked back up, his amber eyes clear once more. “I’m sorry.”

“I don’t remember you losing control like this so often back in Kirkwall,” Varric said uneasily.

“That’s why we decided to come,” Hawke told him. She watched Anders with concern.

It was a subdued, silent group that crossed the courtyard and went up the steps to the battlements leading to the entrance to the mage tower. To Ciri’s relief, both Solas and Olgierd awaited them at the door. Solas had a damp, lumpy cloth bag and roll of parchment in his hand, and he looked quite interested in the hooded member of their group. Olgierd, in contrast, stood empty-handed and wore a grim expression.

“Might I speak with you a moment?” Olgierd said in greeting, and he jerked his head at the corner of the tower.

Ciri followed him to the side of the building. “Is something the matter?”

“Seems like just this morning I had this same talk with Cole,” he said. “He appeared on my bed and asked me to bind him.”

“Bind him?” Ciri asked. “He woke us, too. He wanted a Rivaini amulet, not binding.”

“Because I’d not do it,” Olgierd said. “Goetia, Ciri. I’ve no desire to use forbidden magics again. The pyromancy suits me well enough.”

“What about the teleportation?” she asked. “Isn’t that goetia?”

“In a sense,” Olgierd admitted. “But it isn’t bleeding myself to bind demons. I wish to put that behind me if I can. I’d do a great deal for you; you must know that. But I’d rather not do this.”

“I understand,” Ciri said, and she did. “It isn’t binding, though, just summoning Justice out of Anders and sending him back to the Fade. Even normal mages here summon spirits under controlled circumstances.”

“And a normal mage’s summoning ritual can’t overcome the possession,” Olgierd concluded. He looked at her for a long, heavy moment, then sighed. “Should Solas fail, you’ll have my help.”

“Thank you.” He still looked grim, and guilt rose in her again. “I’m sorry for asking.”

“As you said, it’s not binding. And with luck, I’ll not be needed.”

They returned to the entrance where the others still waited. Solas had handed off the bag and the parchment to Anders, and Anders was reading the words written on the page as Solas spoke.

“–An Avvar ritual, the Rite of Thanks-Giving,” Solas said as they returned. “The possessed mage makes an offering of a slain bird or game animal, burns incense, speaks the words, and focuses their magic to open themselves to the Fade. You’ll most likely need to drink lyrium.”

“We have both incense and lyrium,” Fiona said.

Anders hefted the bag and gave it a dubious look. “Will it count if I’m not the one who killed it?”

“Your intent matters as much as your actions,” Solas told him. “I’m more concerned that Justice will not respond to the ritual should he not have had any interaction with the Avvar in his past.”

“We won’t know until we try,” Hawke said with determined cheer. “Lead on, Grand Enchanter.”

Fiona pushed open the doors to the tower and led them inside. Several mages were present, reading or chatting or laughing at one who’d conjured a handful of floating lights. All of them looked over to see who’d entered and nodded respectfully at the sight of their grand enchanter with the Inquisitor.

Ciri knew a few of the mages. Senior Enchanter Letia and Melora were two of the readers in the corner, and she immediately recognized the curly brown hair and freckles of Ilana Crane, one of the mages who’d fought alongside her in Haven. The burly, mustachioed Kaspar of Perendale was one of the laughing onlookers.

Letia stood from her chair and came forward. “Fiona…and guests. Welcome ones, to be sure,” she said with a nod to Ciri, Olgierd, and Solas. “What brings so many people to the tower?”

“Is the ritual room empty?” Fiona asked, side-stepping the question.

“Symon had a project last night, but I don’t believe anyone’s using it currently,” Letia said. “Is there something we can help you with?”

She peered beneath Anders’ hood curiously, and Anders ducked his head.

“Just privacy,” Fiona said as she stepped in front of Anders. “If you could keep everyone from that floor for however long we’re up there, that would be helpful.”

“Hm.” Letia drew back, her eyes knowing. “We’ll see to it.”

Olgierd spoke up. “Have you any books with diagrams of summoning circles? Not for demons, but for more benign spirits. I could use the refresher.”

Ilana went to the shelves and ran her fingers along the spines, one row after another. Finally, she paused and pulled a thin book bound in dark red leather from its spot and brought it to Olgierd.

“Here’s the one you’re looking for,” she said.

“My thanks.” He tucked it under his arm and turned back to Fiona. “Shall we?”

The trip up the tower was quiet. Ciri knew most of the Loyalist mages preferred to camp near the Templars in the valley below, or to make use of the regular Inquisition quarters. And a great many mages had volunteered to join the Inquisition’s forces, which saw them spread out across Thedas. That left few mages in the tower today – an unexpected boon.

Fiona stopped at an iron-barred oak door at the top of the tower and turned to Anders. “This is a dangerous undertaking. A highly private one, as well. If you don’t want any of these people to witness this, it’s your choice.”

“Hawke and Varric can come,” Anders said after a moment of hesitance. “And the Inquisitor.” He smiled at her tentatively. “You are the one putting your reputation on the line for me, after all.”

“We’ll wait outside,” Solas said of himself and Olgierd.

Fiona nodded and went to the shelves beside the door. With the deft movements of someone who’d searched such shelves countless times before, she retrieved a small glass bottle filled with lyrium, a clay incense burner, and a little bag of granulated incense. She went back to the iron-barred door and turned the handle, pushing it open with effort.

The inside of the ritual chamber was chilly, almost uncomfortably so, with high, windowless walls and a seamless gray stone floor. The only light came from the eight sconces set evenly around the walls, two apiece. Fiona led them to the direct center of the room and gestured for Anders to remove his cloak and staff.

Free of the enveloping garment, Anders looked diminished. Almost gaunt. He wore the rough but sturdy clothes of a Ferelden farmer, dark trousers and a light shirt, and both hung loosely on him. His reddish-blond hair looked unwashed in its half-horsetail.

Concern filled Varric’s face, but all he said was, “Never thought I’d see you without your feathers.”

“They were too identifiable.” Anders frowned down at his trousers. “I’m still not used to not wearing robes.”

“It’s not a bad look,” Varric assured him.

Anders laughed softly as he knelt on the stone floor. “You used to be a better liar.” He looked up at Hawke, the smile falling from his face. “If this fails –”

“You’ll always have me,” Hawke said fiercely. She knelt, too, and she kissed him, hard and swift, before standing and backing away. “I love you.”

“And I love you.”

Fiona set the burner and incense before him and passed him the bottle of lyrium, and he removed a pheasant from the sack and placed it beside the censor. He scanned the parchment one last time and handed it off to Varric.

“Alright,” he said as he carefully deposited the incense in the burner and lit it. “Let’s give this Avvar ritual a try.”

Ciri could feel the change in the air as soon as Anders raised his arms. The smoke from the incense, a strong blend of balsam, cedar, and cinnamon, filled her nose as the hairs on the back of her arms began to stand on end.

“Hail, Justice!” Anders called out. “Partner, friend, and teacher. I bring you gifts of the sky, brought down with my own hand. I bring you gifts of the earth, burned in fire. I bring you my devotion and gratitude for our many years together. The time has come for us to walk separate paths. Hail, Justice! Strong and silent, protector of freedoms. I honor you! Walk free!”

He downed the lyrium and thrust his hands toward the ceiling.

The air in the chamber grew thick. The temperature climbed. A faint, crawling sensation, like static or insects, played across the back of Ciri’s neck. The blue-white sheen overtook Anders’ eyes again, creeping down his face and jaw in jagged lines.

The bird burst into flames, and the smell of burning feathers overtook the scent of incense. It burned down into nothing but a lump of greasy coal in seconds.

“Walk _–_ free!” he gasped, then collapsed as Justice sank back inside.

Her ears popped as the pressure in the chamber dropped again.

“Well, shit.” Varric’s face creased with a frown as Hawke dropped to her knees beside Anders.

Ciri pushed open the door and stuck her head out. Solas and Olgierd looked back at her hopefully, and she shook her head.

Olgierd pulled the book out from under his arm. “I saw chalk and candles on the shelves,” he said quietly. “I’ll be but a moment.”

"Thank you," she said and returned to the chamber, feeling another unpleasant squirm of guilt.

Achingly slowly, Anders sat back up. “It didn’t work. It was so close – I could feel him pulling away!”

“Did it hurt?” Hawke asked. She ran her hands over his shoulders and arms tenderly, her face filled with worry.

“No,” Anders said. “It felt like being stretched. But it wasn’t _me_ being stretched. And it was leaving a hole – I think I panicked when I felt that. That’s probably why the ritual failed.”

“We have another option,” Ciri said. “Olgierd is going to try to summon Justice out of you directly and then send him back into the Fade.”

Anders looked at her, his exhaustion not able to disguise his skepticism. “That’s impossible.”

“For all that Olgierd chooses to limit the spells he uses, he is quite a powerful mage,” Ciri said. “I wouldn’t count him out.”

The door swung open again, and Olgierd entered, a bundle of candles tucked in the crook of his arm and a stick of chalk clutched in his hand. In his other hand, he held open the book, and he studied its pages carefully.

Fiona came to his side to look over his shoulder. “That is the one,” she confirmed. “I don’t see where it calls for candles, however.”

“A minor variant on the spell.”

Olgierd snapped the book shut and stepped forward to catch Anders’ eyes. “If you need a moment, I can give it to you.”

“No.” Anders’ voice was hoarse but determined. “Let’s try again.”

Olgierd crossed to the far side of the chamber and knelt to begin drawing the summoning circle. From Ciri’s vantage point near the door, she couldn’t see much, but it looked a great deal more complicated than a simple pentagram, with small, swirling lines and long, elegant whorls. He stood, walked ten paces away, and began to trace another.

“What –” Fiona murmured.

“He knows a different way,” Ciri said hurriedly, keeping her voice low.

This one she recognized as a pentagram, stark and plain inside its circle. Olgierd set out the candles along the outside and knelt within it.

“You stay there,” he said to Anders. “Don’t move from that spot, not an inch.”

Anders nodded in understanding. “I won’t.”

“And the tighter you cleave to your spirit, the worse it will likely feel,” Olgierd warned him. “You must let him go.”

Anders took a deep breath. “I will. I’m ready.”

Hawke got up again and backed away. Varric wrapped a supportive arm around her back.

Olgierd closed his eyes and rested his hands on his knees for a long, silent moment, then raised them suddenly as he opened his eyes again. Flames shot up from the wicks of the candles surrounding him. Anders made a faint sound of discomfort and rubbed his chest.

Olgierd began to chant, low and harsh, in a tongue Ciri didn’t recognize. A light breeze stirred the air within the chamber as Anders stiffened.

Ciri rubbed her arms. The air was growing colder, there was no doubt of that, yet the candle flames rose ever higher. Olgierd’s voice grew stronger, more demanding.

Blue-white streaks crisscrossed Anders’ face and neck, snaking past his hairline and down the collar of his shirt to twine around his fingers. The possessed mage shook and grimaced as Olgierd called to the spirit.

Then, in a burst of light and heat, Anders collapsed again, and the empty summoning circle suddenly held a translucent blue-white spirit shaped like a man in the full plate armor of a Grey Warden warrior.

Olgierd dropped his hands to his knees, panting, as the candle flames fell to a normal height. He slowly stood, taking care not to smudge the chalk or leave the circle.

“Anders?” Hawke called out.

Anders groaned and sat up. “I feel... Oh, Andraste’s knickerweasels. The last time my head pounded like this, Sigrun and Oghren had challenged us all to a drinking contest.”

“Anders!” Hawke raced to his side and flung her arms around him.

He stood on unsteady legs, his arms firm around Hawke’s shoulders. His shaky whisper wasn’t meant to be heard, but it carried past Hawke’s ears to Ciri’s. “I feel empty. Maker, Hawke. I feel so empty.”

Hawke’s whisper was quieter, but whatever she said seemed to reassure him. He gently eased out of her embrace and turned to face the spirit in the summoning circle.

“Hello, Justice,” Anders said hoarsely.

_“Anders_ ,” Justice replied. “ _Will you continue the fight for mage freedom without me_? _”_

Anders managed a wan smile. “I suppose so.”

_“Good,”_ Justice said firmly. _“Our work is not yet done. If you said otherwise, I would need to stay.”_

Anders shook his head. “You can go. I won’t forget about the other mages.”

_“We struck a blow for freedom together_ ,” Justice told him, his voice ringing with conviction. “ _We won a great victory! But the fight against oppression must not be abandoned. You are the cause of mages, Anders.”_

Anders twitched like he was holding in a flinch. "I'm what you made me," he said quietly. He looked down. "What we made each other."

_“Take heart in your accomplishments_ ,” Justice advised him. “ _We taught each other to see clearly. You always had this fight in you, my friend. It is as I told you before. You have an obligation to act.”_

“I remember,” Anders said, an edge of unhappiness in his voice.

_“The physical world is uncomfortable,_ " Justice declared and turned his helmeted head toward Olgierd. " _Mage. I would go back to the Fade.”_

Olgierd extended his hand and muttered in the strange tongue under his breath. Between one blink and the next, Justice disappeared.

A sob escaped Anders, and he slapped his palm over his mouth, his other hand pressing hard against his chest. Hawke wrapped her arms around him from behind, murmuring to him softly, and Varric joined them to place his hand on Anders’ elbow.

Ciri, Olgierd, and Fiona busied themselves with cleaning up the remains of both rituals while Hawke and Varric held Anders. Ciri opened the door to the ritual room, her arms full of candles, and nodded to Solas.

“It worked.”

“Fascinating,” Solas said. “I had my doubts, but I’m glad to be wrong. And Justice was returned safely to the Fade?”

“He was.”

Solas smiled. “A happy ending.”

Ciri wouldn’t call Anders’ state ‘happy,’ but it was the outcome they’d hoped for. “I suppose so.”

“Then if I’m no longer needed, I should take my leave,” Solas said. “You’ve done well, _lethallin._ Give Olgierd my congratulations on his success.”

“Congratulate him yourself,” she said. “Stay. You were part of this. You ought to see it through.”

Perhaps it was impulsive, but she didn’t want him withdrawing back to the rotunda or the workroom in solitude again. A part of her hoped that more ties to the present would help act as insurance against his plans. Another, larger part of her just wanted him to feel included. ‘ _Harellan_ ’ or not.

“Very well,” he said warmly. “I’m pleased to share in this victory.”

She went to stow the candles away, soon joined by Fiona with the censer and incense and Olgierd with the chalk and the book.

“I won’t ask where you learned your ritual,” Fiona murmured to Olgierd as she tucked the censer back into its spot on the shelves. “It was successful, and it wasn’t blood magic. Discretion seems to be the better choice here.”

“My thanks,” he said quietly.

“But if you ever need help with demons, you can turn to us,” she told him. “You are a fellow mage, and we take care of our own.”

“My demon troubles are in the past,” he said. “Still, it’s a kind offer.”

Ciri looked up at the sound of Anders’ raised voice, distressed and anxious, coming from through the open door. She exchanged a worried glance with Olgierd and returned to the chamber, her friend, Solas, and the grand enchanter right behind her.

“– Bodies,” Anders said frantically, gripping Hawke’s shoulders. “There were bodies in Lowtown. Hawke, why do I remember bodies?”

Hawke put her hands over Anders’. “What do you remember?”

“I don’t – Meredith and Orsino were facing off when I arrived,” he said. The words came from him slowly, as if they were being dragged from the recesses of his memory. “I said it was too late. The chantry exploded – I did that.”

“ _We_ did that,” Hawke said swiftly. “I helped you get the ingredients. I distracted Elthina.”

“Shit, Hawke,” Varric muttered as he threw a wary glance at Ciri. “I left that out of the book for a reason.”

“That night…it’s been fuzzy for years,” Anders said. “Did I… Did I ask you to kill me?”

Hawke blinked hard, her eyes suspiciously shiny. “You did.”

Anders’ face twisted in misery. “Why didn’t you?”

“I’d lost too much,” Hawke whispered. “I wasn’t about to lose you, too. And you were right. Something needed to be done in Kirkwall.”

“How many people did I kill?” he asked her hoarsely.

“Anders –”

“ _How many_?”

“Two hundred and thirty-eight,” Varric said. “One hundred and sixty-two died immediately. Seventy-six died of injuries later.”

Anders tore away from Hawke with a choked cry. He fell to his knees with his hands over his face, his shoulders shaking. Ciri stood frozen by the door as Hawke and Varric got down on the floor beside him.

“It’s never easy with you, is it, Blondie?” Varric sighed. He rubbed Anders’ back gently while Hawke tried to coax his hands from his face.

When Anders spoke again, his voice was muffled and thick with tears. “I told him. When we were in the Wardens. I just wanted to keep my head down and live my life. I didn’t _want_ to ‘strike a blow against my oppressors.’ Maker, what have I done?”

“You liberated Kirkwall’s mages and lit the flame of the mage rebellion,” Hawke told him. “Without you, Meredith would have annulled the Gallows.”

Anders let out a wet, unhappy laugh. “Hawke. There are better ways to get your point across than mass casualties.”

Hawke sat back, hurt and worry crossing her face.

Varric spoke up as he rubbed Anders’ back. He kept his voice calm and nonjudgmental. “Not such a small price to pay after all, hm?”

“Fuck everything,” Anders said bitterly. He dropped his hands and looked up at Ciri with red-rimmed eyes. “Inquisitor. I surrender myself into your custody.”

“Anders, _no_!” Hawke cried as she shot to her feet. She unslung her staff from her back and glared at Ciri. “Inquisitor, don’t you take a step toward him!”

Ciri held up a calming hand to Hawke and met Anders’ eyes. Raúl and Rona’s words from earlier came to her, and she pressed her lips together as she thought. Raúl’s assumption that the possession had affected him seemed correct. Rona’s thoughts on his competency might be, too. She had an obligation to find out the truth before revoking his amnesty and tossing him in the dungeon.

“What do you remember about the bombing?” she asked. “About the planning and the execution?”

“What does it matter?” Anders asked, shaking his head. “I did it. I killed all those people.”

“Trust me,” Ciri said. “It matters.”

Anders rose unsteadily to his feet again. “I don’t remember how the idea came to me. I do remember it was after another Mage Underground meeting. We’d smuggled a rape victim out, a seventeen-year-old boy. Ser Karras had a type,” he spat. “We all agreed something needed to be done, but we couldn’t decide on what. I went to sleep that night, and when I woke up, I just knew what I had to do.”

He shot a shamefaced look at Varric and Hawke. “I had to keep it secret. I – I lied about what I was doing. I told them it was a recipe to separate myself from Justice.”

Hawke started to speak up, and Varric shook his head at her sharply.

“Why a bomb, Anders?” Ciri asked gently. “Why did you think you had to lie?”

“I don’t – it had to be a bomb,” Anders said in bewilderment. “It had to be secret.”

Ciri felt an odd, uncomfortable mix of pity and relief– pity at his former state, and relief that she wouldn’t have to arrest Varric’s friend. “Listen to yourself. You don’t even understand your own reasons.”

“What do the reasons matter when I’m the one who did it?” Anders shot back.

“They _matter_ ,” Ciri said again. “Did you ever try to change your mind? To stop yourself?”

Anders looked down as he thought, then back up at Ciri, his eyes wide with startlement. “Yes. Once. I had the drakestone and the _sela petrae_ , and I was about to start making the bomb. I remember being terrified – of the project, of the consequences, of myself. I gathered up the materials to throw them out, and then –” He shrugged uneasily. “There are more than a few blank spots in that month.”

Hawke let her staff sag as she stared at Anders in dismay. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Justice already thought you were a distraction from the ‘cause,’” Anders said. “If he thought I’d set you against him…”

Hawke cursed and turned away.

“Anders,” Ciri said, and she waited for him to meet her eyes. “You don’t know why you chose a bomb. You don’t know why you kept it secret from your friends and Hawke. You tried to stop yourself. You weren’t even aware of the consequences for years. You _can’t_ be held responsible for your actions. You quite literally weren’t in your right mind.”

“I should be punished for it,” Anders insisted. “Prison, hard labor – death!”

“You are being punished.” Olgierd finally spoke up from his place by the door. Ciri glanced at him and saw sympathy on his face. “You’ve innocent blood on your hands. You’ll carry that knowledge for the rest of your life.”

“How?” Anders asked him desperately. “How do I live with it?”

“One day at a time.” Olgierd offered him a faint smile. “I don’t recommend spending the next few years drinking your sorrows away in every run-down tavern you stumble over. You’ve friends, a paramour. Lean on them if they’ll let you. Try to balance the scales by doing good.”

Solas seemed thoughtful at Olgierd’s words, and he nodded slowly.

Anders looked doubtful, but he turned his gaze to Hawke, who stared back fiercely.

“Always,” she said, her knuckles white around her staff. “You can _always_ count on me.”

“Yeah,” Varric said. “Me, too, Blondie.”

Anders looked like he was about to start crying again for a moment as his eyes went bright and glossy. He blinked away the threatening tears and nodded back at them. “I’ll try. And thanks – Olgierd, was it? For separating us. And for the advice.”

Olgierd inclined his head in acknowledgment, and Anders turned to the scuffed-out summoning circle with a sigh.

“He didn’t say goodbye,” he said softly. “He saved my life, you know.”

“I know.” Hawke’s voice was gentle. “Come on. Let’s get back on the road. We have places to be, and we’ve taken up enough of the Inquisitor’s and grand enchanter’s time.”

Anders covered himself with his shapeless cloak again and placed his staff across his back. As he began to follow Hawke toward the door, Varric stopped him with a hand on his arm and pulled him down into a tight hug.

“You dumb bastard,” Varric muttered. “Ever try to throw yourself on your sword like that again and I’ll kill you myself.”

“Would you suggest boiling in oil?” Anders said with muted amusement. “Or is that still too prosaic?”

Varric laughed and let him go. “You take care out there. Both of you. And Anders, it’ll be good getting to know you again.”

Anders looked like that hadn’t occurred to him yet. “I suppose…it will be good getting to know myself again, too.”

Fiona led the way back down the stairs to the bottom level. Behind Ciri, Solas offered Olgierd his quiet congratulations, and just as quietly, Olgierd thanked him. As they neared the entryway, faint shouting could be heard from outside. Someone pounded on the door furiously. The mages down below looked wary and nervous, exchanging grim looks and fingering their staves.

“Is it happening again?” Ilana asked Fiona. “Have the Inquisition’s Templars turned on us?”

Melora narrowed her eyes. “Let them try.”

Ciri recognized the voices as they drew closer. Cassandra. And Cullen. And slightly less clearly, she could hear Rona and Raúl trying to calm them down.

“ _I know he’s in there!_ ” Cullen shouted. “ _Send him out!_ ”

Anders drew in a deep breath. “Well, that’s that.”

Hawke grabbed his arm. “No. We can find another way out. We can fight.”

He smiled sadly and rubbed his thumb over her high cheekbone. “I love you.”

“ _Anders! I know you’re in there!_ ”

Hissing whispers broke out around them, and Melora grinned, wide and eager.

“If you’d stop with the dramatics,” Ciri said tartly, “you might remember that _I’m_ the Inquisitor, and I already pardoned you. And this is the mages’ tower, not the Inquisition’s. Grand Enchanter Fiona and I will handle this.”

She crossed the room and threw open the door. Cullen almost fell through, his face white as milk with two red spots of rage on his cheeks. He clutched his naked sword in one trembling hand. Cassandra loomed behind him. At the rear, Raúl and Rona met her eyes, looking apologetic and upset.

“Cassandra got suspicious,” Rona said in an undertone. “She saw you pass her from the training grounds and went to fetch the Commander.”

“Where is Anders?” Cullen demanded.

Fiona pushed her way to the front of the group. “You _dare_ demand that I hand a mage over to you? _Any_ mage? When we all know how the Kirkwall Circle was run? Leave, Templar, and take your demands with you.”

“Then give him to me,” Cassandra said sternly. “The abomination must face justice.”

“He did face Justice,” Ciri told her. “And Justice left. Anders is no longer an abomination.”

“Not possible,” Cassandra declared.

In the same breath, Cullen spat, “Prove it.”

Anders reached for his hood and pulled it down, and Cullen’s scarred upper lip twisted in a snarl. “It’s true,” Anders said. “You can Silence me, or the grand enchanter can use magic on me. If I were still possessed, Justice would defend himself.”

“I’ll do it,” Fiona interrupted before Cassandra or Cullen could speak. “There will be no Templar or Seeker spells cast in this tower.”

She turned back to Anders, her face far kinder than when they’d been introduced. “Are you certain?” she asked him. “You’re swaying on your feet.”

“I’m certain.”

“Very well.”

Fiona thrust out her hand toward his chest, and a dense, crackling ball of white light splashed across his shirt front and sank through. He staggered back with a low cry of pain.

“You see?” Fiona said to Cullen. “I oversaw it myself. There is no spirit. Only the man remains.”

“He still needs to pay for what he did,” Cullen insisted. He braced himself against the doorframe.

Hawke laughed, low and scornful. “Oh, that’s rich, coming from you. Have you paid even the slightest bit? Or did you just jump at the chance to join the Inquisition and pretend like you never had a hand in the Gallows’ cruelties?”

“I trusted my knight-commander,” Cullen shot back.

“How many rapes, Cullen?” Hawke demanded. “How many beatings? How many illegal rites of Tranquility?”

"I have those numbers," Cassandra said. Her fierce glower diminished some as she looked between Anders, Hawke, and Cullen. "Though they were well out of date by the time of the explosion. The Seekers found thirty instances of beatings, and nine instances of the illegal use of the rite of Tranquility on a Harrowed mage when we investigated Kirkwall five years prior. They turned up only isolated incidents of rape and were assured it had been dealt with. It was suspected that the true rate of rape and molestation was far higher, but the investigation couldn't prove anything."

“And why didn’t you do anything to stop it?” Ciri asked her, appalled.

Cassandra looked regretful. “The Seekers found so many cases of blood magic and demon summoning in Kirkwall, it was decided that we shouldn’t intervene in Knight-Commander Meredith’s efforts to keep control. Clearly, that was a mistake.”

“Clearly,” Ciri agreed coldly.

“How many?” Hawke asked Cullen again.

Cullen looked at her for a long, silent moment. The anger drained from his face. “I don’t know. More than that. Many more.”

“How many mages did you –”

“Maker’s breath, _none!_ ” Cullen exclaimed.

“You just kept your eyes shut to the atrocities your brothers and sisters were carrying out? While _you_ were second-in-command?” Hawke asked skeptically.

“I failed in my duties,” Cullen said. “I failed my charges by not protecting them. All I can do is try to be a better man. I’m sorry.”

Varric studied his fingernails and said in a carefully offhand way, “You know, when Anders was separated from Justice and he realized what he’d done in Kirkwall, he tried to turn himself in to the Inquisitor. Begged for punishment.”

The pointed words hit home, and Cullen sagged against the doorframe.

“Enough!” Ciri said sharply. “No one is being punished today. Anders and Hawke are leaving. They’re free to go. I questioned Anders about the explosion myself, and I’m sure of his lack of culpability in the matter.”

“Are you certain, Lady Ciri?” Cassandra asked her.

Ciri nodded to her. “I am.”

“Then…then I will stand aside.” Cassandra sighed heavily. “You have my trust and respect, my lady, and if you believe this is the right path, then I won’t interfere.”

Cullen made a small sound of protest.

Hawke strode up to the doorway and skewered him with a searing look of contempt. “Move.”

“I’m not a Templar any longer, Hawke,” Cullen said, his voice tired and empty of anger. He raised a shaking hand. “I don’t even have lyrium in my blood.”

“And I don’t have a spirit in mine,” Anders replied from over her shoulder. There was a ghost of humor in his words. He matched Cullen’s shaking hand with one of his own. “What a pair we make, after all these years.”

“You still killed people,” Cullen said quietly.

“I did,” Anders agreed. “So did you. Every subordinate you ignored who killed, raped, beat, or made a mage Tranquil – you share responsibility. You could have stopped Ser Alrik and Ser Karras.”

Cullen winced and looked away. “And so we both go free,” he murmured, so quiet Ciri could barely hear him.

“And so we both go free.”

Cullen slowly stood aside as Anders pulled his hood up again. Hawke turned back to swoop down on Varric for a brief hug and grasp Olgierd’s arm in silent gratitude. She nodded to Ciri, Fiona, and Solas, threaded her fingers through Anders’, and the two of them left without another word.

At first, no one seemed willing to break the silence that they left in their wake. Then Raúl came forward and pulled Cullen’s arm over his shoulders. “Come on, Commander. Let’s get you back to bed.”

“Go,” Ciri told him when he seemed inclined to linger.

Raúl helped an unprotesting Cullen away from the tower, and Rona followed behind them. Cassandra gave her a short nod and left as well. The mages all seemed to collectively sigh in relief as the last of their unwanted visitors disappeared.

Ciri ignored the flurry of excited chatter that broke out behind her and looked down at Varric. Her friend stared out the open door and across the courtyard, his gaze tracking two tall, thin figures that grew smaller with each step they took.

“They’ll be alright,” she assured him.

“Ha. Those two?” he said fondly. “I don’t think there’s a damn thing in this world or the next that can take them down.”

Ciri could see what he meant. As the two mages slowly disappeared in the distance, the evening light took their shadows and stretched them. And just for a moment, she was watching giants.


	51. Poems and the Past

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Olgierd takes a trip back to the Continent with Triss to set his affairs in order. A few encounters reveal just how much he's changed -- and a brush with a sorceress exposes a potential threat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> beta-read by brightspot149. Thank you!

Olgierd approached Josephine’s desk quietly, holding in his greeting at the sight of her bent head and furious writing. He smiled to himself as he spotted a tiny stray ink spot on her nose. He cleared his throat softly and came around to the side of her armchair.

Her writing slowed, then stopped, and she looked up at him with a smile. "Your timing is perfect," she said as she set her quill down by the inkpot. "I'm almost done writing these letters."

“You seemed intent,” he said. He reached out and rubbed the side of her nose lightly, and the little ink spot came away on his thumb.

Josephine’s cheeks darkened and she laughed, catching his hand before he could draw it back. “I don’t doubt it! Ciri’s decision to pardon Anders, while merciful, is exceedingly controversial. I’ve been writing to every head of state in Thedas explaining the events here and her reasoning.”

“Will they abide by it?” he asked.

“We can only hope,” she told him. “The Chantry will dislike her decision, but the grand clerics have expended much of what power they had by expelling Agnesot and her faction. Prince Sebastian of Starkhaven may choose to ignore the pardon. He was very close to Grand Cleric Elthina.”

“What more can be done?”

“Leliana’s agents have been sent out to begin a new whisper campaign,” she said. She gave him a regretful smile. “‘The Hand of the Maker extends the Maker’s mercy – or the Maker’s wrath.’”

“Ciri will hate that.”

“We know,” Josephine said, and she sighed as she looked at the letters on her desk. “But reason rarely reaches the common man. Inspirational stories, heroes and villains, good triumphing over evil, win their hearts far better than a dry explanation of the facts. And so, the spirit of Justice becomes the villain, with Anders the brave Grey Warden who was freed from his grasp by the blessing of the Hand of the Maker.”

“I can’t say I’m not relieved to hear my part in this won’t be mentioned,” he said.

“We thought it would be best not to bring more scrutiny down on you.” She squeezed his hand and let go to pick up her quill again and sign the letter with a flourish. “You did a good thing, Olgierd. I know you told me such magic is forbidden where you come from, but you helped Anders when no one else could.”

“I hadn’t considered that I might use it for something other than selfish purposes, or causing harm to others,” he said. “Helps lay some things to rest for me.”

Josephine smiled up at him, her eyes soft and fond. “I’m glad to hear it.”

A swell of love and affection rose in him, and he bent to kiss her smooth cheek.

“I’m afraid I interrupted your work for a reason,” he said. “I’ll be out of Skyhold for the afternoon. I may not be back in time for our supper.”

“Out of Skyhold?” she echoed. She sat back in surprise. “But Ciri has already left for the Hinterlands with Varric and Dorian. What business could take you from the keep?”

“The unfinished sort.” Josephine looked puzzled, and he leaned against the edge of her desk and reached for her hand. “I’m a pauper here in Thedas. I’ve a sword and a flat purse to my name and not much else. But I’ve a fortune in Vivaldi Bank back on the Continent. Triss has agreed to take me back today to withdraw it all now that she’s finished with the second round of the lyrium cure.”

Josephine rose from her armchair in alarm. “Back to the Continent? But –”

“There’s little danger,” he said swiftly, “and we’ll return by the day’s end, no later.”

She still looked troubled, and she placed her free hand on his chest. “Olgierd…you must know I don’t care about your fortune. Or about how little money you have here. Your kindness and chivalry drew me to you, not your wealth and status.”

“I know, dove. Just as I cherish you for your cleverness and your gentle heart.” Her hand was soft and warm against his chest, and he could almost feel his heart beating against it. “I do this for my own peace of mind.”

He wouldn’t break his word to her; should she ever wish to leave him, he wouldn’t stand in her way. But he hoped for more, for a life they could build together.

And Josephine’s family, only just beginning to recover from their decades of debt, couldn’t countenance her marrying a penniless man. He’d lived that tale before. He wouldn’t try to live it again.

“You gave me your support when it came to restoring my family’s trading status,” Josephine said after a moment. “I can do no less than support you in this.”

He pressed the knuckles of the hand he held to his lips in wordless thanks. “Is there aught you wish me to bring you? A book of poetry, perhaps, or a new bracelet? Novigrad’s shops are among the finest in the Northern kingdoms.”

"Just bring yourself back to me," she said firmly. "Well, and unharmed."

“You have my word.”

She leaned up to place a soft kiss on his lips and pulled away gently, her eyes still troubled. “Do take care, my dear one.”

“I shall.”

He strode from her office and out of the main hall, across the grassy courtyard and down the steps to the small gatehouse and bridge where Triss awaited him. She wore the clothes she’d arrived to Thedas in, and she had a short, hooded cloak draped around her shoulders.

“I don’t know how you talked me into this,” she said in lieu of hello. “I said I’d need to be paid a fortune to return to Novigrad, and here I am taking you there for free to retrieve yours.”

“As I understand it, the Church of the Eternal Fire has a great deal less power in the city now that the Great Sun rises above Redania,” Olgierd said. “By the time Geralt crossed my path, they’d ceased burning anyone, and that was four years ago.”

He wasn’t looking forward to returning to Redania either, but the ghosts of his past haunted him less these days. He suspected it wouldn’t be quite as terrible an ordeal as it might have been some months back.

They set off across the bridge on foot together, leaving the enchanted temperate climate behind for chill winds and snow. The cold bit through his robes, and he ducked his head and wrapped his arms around himself in a fruitless attempt to keep warm.

“This way,” she called over the wind once they left the bridge.

She led him down the steep, snow-covered rocky slope to the edge of the frigid river just beneath the bridge. A well-hidden crevice in the cliff face revealed itself as they approached, and Triss slipped through with a backwards glance at the distant tents dotting the river. He followed her in and found a small, dark cave with a low ceiling and a damp floor.

“No one can see me teleport from here,” she said. She frowned. “Getting your gold back up to Skyhold will be difficult. I’ll have to think about that.”

He stood clear as she raised her arms and thrust her hands forward toward the back of the cave wall. A low, rushing noise, not unlike the wind outside, filled the small space, and a swirling disk of orange, taller and wider than a man, appeared before them.

“Hurry,” she said, and she stepped through it briskly.

He followed before it could close without him. There was a strange, stomach-lurching moment of vertigo, then all righted itself, and he stepped out into the Trevelyans’ garden, just in front of their portal. Triss’ portal winked out of existence behind him seconds later.

A guard poked his head around the corner and relaxed at the sight of Triss with Olgierd. “Mistress Merigold,” he said in greeting. “Lady Trevelyan wanted a word with you when you came again. She’s in the back garden with the children now – I’ll go and tell her you’re here.”

“We’re just passing through,” Triss told him. “All we need is the crystal.”

The guard shook his head and turned to leave. “Orders are orders. I’ll just be a minute.”

Olgierd and Triss waited in silence as the guard hurried off. After the promised minute, footsteps could be heard approaching, and the light, high chatter of children interspersed with a woman’s voice. Lady Corin Trevelyan came through the trellised archway, Luke skipping at her side and Delphine trailing along behind with a ten-year-old’s put-upon dignity. The guard brought up the rear.

“Mistress Merigold,” Lady Trevelyan said warmly. “And Lord Olgierd. How are my children doing? I understand Owain was to take part in an experimental cure of some sort that you and our Evelyn developed?”

“He and the other former Markham Templars came through it fine with no complications,” Triss assured her. “They were released from the infirmary yesterday afternoon.”

An expression of pure joy and relief crossed Lady Trevelyan’s face for a second before she composed herself. “Oh, my son. You’re a blessing, Triss Merigold. My family can’t thank you enough.”

Triss deflected the praise with a modest gesture. “It was a pleasure to help.”

“And Maxwell and Evelyn?” Lady Trevelyan asked. “How are they?”

Olgierd looked down at a light tug on his robe to see Luke standing before him with wide, slightly scared brown eyes. Behind him, hovering cautiously, stood his sister. He turned from the ladies’ conversation and bent over slightly to address the children.

“Did you need something?”

Luke swallowed and took a half-step back, then straightened his shoulders and nodded. “Are you a pirate?” he asked in a carrying whisper.

Olgierd stifled his laughter and gave him a serious look. “Now what would a proper young man like you know about pirates?”

“Mama told us about the Felicisima Armada,” Delphine said in a matter-of-fact tone. “Grandpapa is the Antivan ambassador to Ostwick. She knows about their effect on economic matters.”

“And what, pray tell, do pirates look like?”

Luke’s gaze darted up and down the length of Olgierd’s body.

“Mama says they wear jewels and silks and have lots of scars,” Delphine said.

“And they’re scary,” Luke whispered.

Olgierd squatted down before Luke, his amusement dying. “Was I so terrifying when we first met?”

“Yes,” Luke admitted. “But Papa and Uncle Owain were there.”

“Well,” Olgierd said. “I fear you’re mistaken, children. There are no pirates here. It’s an easy enough mistake to make, for I do have a frightful visage.”

He gave them a ferocious scowl, exaggerated to the point of parody, and was rewarded by two small giggles.

“There, you see? It’s a wonder they allow me out in public with this face. It just so happens, however, that looking like a pirate allows me to frighten off all manner of bad men and women. One good glare and they turn and run.”

Delphine’s giggles faded into a smile, and she patted Luke on the shoulder. “Luke, this was very rude of us. Lord Olgierd, I apologize for brother’s and my curiosity.”

“Sorry!” Luke said sheepishly.

“Curiosity in children ought to be encouraged,” Olgierd said as he stood up from his crouch. “Forgiven, of course. And better me than an actual pirate, hm?”

He turned back to Triss and Lady Trevelyan to see them both watching his conversation with the children with mirth in their eyes.

“It’s good you apologized, children,” Lady Trevelyan scolded her grandchildren. “You were quite impertinent to our guest.”

“They meant no harm,” Olgierd told her.

Lady Trevelyan shook her head at that. “My son’s marvelous little rapscallions. I can’t wait until they’re old enough to offend people of consequence – no offense intended, Lord Olgierd.”

“None taken.”

She passed Triss the power crystal and took Luke and Delphine by the hands. “If we don’t see you this evening, give my love to my children. And be sure to pass on the letters and package.”

“Of course, Lady Trevelyan,” Triss said.

She slotted the crystal into its socket and stood back as the portal hummed to life with an eerie blue-green glow. The Trevelyans drew several steps away as Triss stepped through.

“Goodbye, Lord Olgierd!” Luke piped up.

Olgierd looked over his shoulder and winked at the boy, then followed Triss through the portal. One uncomfortable, stomach-twisting second later, and he stood in an elegant foyer beside Triss.

Two mages, a teenaged boy and a young woman, looked up at their arrival.

“Mistress Merigold,” the young woman greeted Triss. “Do you want us to fetch Rector Laux-Antille or Professor Metz?”

“No thank you, Demelza,” Triss said. “We’re heading to Novigrad; we aren’t staying.”

The two mages exchanged curious, excited looks, but held back from peppering them with questions. Triss led the way out of the foyer and into the yard, and Olgierd looked around in surprise.

The once broken, abandoned estate appeared sturdy and new to his eyes. The debris had been hauled away, and the buildings had been given a fresh coat of white paint that shone beneath the Toussaint sun. The ring of sharpened stakes that had surrounded it was long gone, with the holes filled in with bushes of dozens of plants he recognized from books on alchemy.

“Impressive work,” he said.

Triss shook her head. “It’s no Aretuza, but it’ll do until we rebuild.”

She raised her arms again and summoned another swirling orange portal. Dust kicked up over the toes of his boots, and nearby blades of grass bent and stirred at the phantom wind. He followed her through once more.

A cry of surprise met his ears as his feet hit the ground again. A washerwoman sat in the dirt clutching a soaked shift, shock and fear in her eyes as she stared at the portal. He recognized the area at once. Triss had deposited them just outside Farcorners.

“Come on,” Triss said quietly, pulling up the hood on her short cape. “The sooner we get this done, the sooner we can leave.”

They set off for the Portside gate together, wending their way through the narrow, muddy streets and run-down houses. The ragged residents, human and nonhuman alike, were too proud, too cynical, to gawk, but they watched them pass with cautious, wary eyes. He and Triss were too clean for the little portside district, too finely dressed. The saber at Olgierd’s hip was likely the only deterrent for any would-be cutpurses.

The mud beneath their feet turned to stone soon enough, but the stench of fish and river quickly turned to that of any Northern city – faint smells of sewage, and the ripe odor of bodies and sweat, overlaid with dozens of clashing perfumes. He wrinkled his nose and hurried on.

Triss walked with purpose, her hands in fists by her sides. Her shoulders stiffened at every unexpected loud noise.

“I shouldn’t have asked this of you,” Olgierd said quietly when Triss flinched yet again.

In answer, Triss pointed to an abandoned, burned-out garrison as they passed by. "They tortured me there. Ripped out my fingernails. We went there on purpose to help Ciri and Dandelion, but – it's hard to forget. I burned it down in the end, though,” she said with grim satisfaction.

“The Eternal Fire is nearly toothless these days,” Olgierd said. “They can’t harm you, even if the emperor hadn’t pardoned practitioners of the Art. But if you wish to wait for me outside Farcorners, I understand.”

“No.” Triss glared up at the scorched and gutted garrison for a second, then looked ahead. “I need to be here. I need to put it behind me.”

On they went, dodging merchants and shoppers, doxies and dockworkers. It was jarring seeing the fashions of the Continent again after so long in Thedas. Novigrad, as always, was a cosmopolitan blend of Redanian robes and dresses, Nilfgaardian doublets and gowns, and Temerian tunics and kirtles. The streets began to widen the closer they drew to the heart of the city, and the scent of sewage began to fade. The entrance to Hierarch Square opened before them, crowded and bustling with people.

Triss paused, took a steadying breath, and strode forward.

Vivaldi Bank stood just to the side of the entrance, the cleanest and richest of the shop fronts in the square. Olgierd pushed open the carved wooden door and walked into a tastefully decorated waiting room. A plush Ofieri carpet covered the floor, and a soft, dreamy landscape of Oxenfurt at sunset hung on the stone wall above the chairs and small table. Along the far wall was a sturdy oak counter, and behind it sat a bored-looking young dwarf.

Olgierd approached the counter as Triss took a seat in one of the chairs. “I’d like to make a withdrawal from my account,” he said.

The bored teller looked up at him, her dark eyebrows rising fractionally in interest. “What’s the name on the account, and how much would you like to withdraw?”

“Von Everec. And all of it.”

Suddenly much more alert, the teller turned to the shelves behind her and peered at the spines of the ledgers. “Redania…V…Vegelbud …von Esteken…von Everec.”

She plunked the ledger down on the counter and flipped through it, muttering under her breath. Her eyes widened as she reached the last page. “Milord, I’ll need authorization from Master Vivaldi for this. Is… Has the bank offended you in some way?”

“Nay,” he assured her. “I’ve moved to a new home, that’s all, and it’s too far away for me to continue to do my banking here. My trust in Vivaldi is as solid as it ever was.”

The teller wilted in relief and slid off her stool, the ledger tucked beneath her arm. “I’ll be back in just a moment, milord. I’m sure something can be done to satisfy you.”

Olgierd leaned against the counter and settled in to wait. He didn’t have long. Less than a minute passed before he could hear the raised voice of Vimme Vivaldi shouting down the hall. Then hurried footsteps came his way, and the teller reappeared at Vivaldi’s heels. The banker, as usual, looked impeccably turned out in a brocade coat and cloth of gold waistcoat. His bristling gray beard nearly swallowed his ruffled ascot.

Vivaldi gave him a wide, conciliatory smile that didn’t distract from the flush of consternation covering his pale cheeks. “Welcome, Lord von Everec, sir. I can see by the ledger it’s been a few years since ye’ve set foot in our establishment. I understand ye have a rather unusual request of us?”

“It’s no slight to you and your fine work,” Olgierd said. “I’ve traveled farther afield than your bank does business and intend to stay there.”

Vivaldi harrumphed. “Yes, well! We do pride ourselves on customer satisfaction. The problem, milord, is the amount is simply too large tae be paid out with what we have in the vault. We havenae the coin for it. If ye’d submitted a request tae close out your account ahead of time, then perhaps we might have been prepared.”

“I don’t need it all in coin,” Olgierd countered. “Gold and silver bars and precious gems will serve as well.”

The teller leaned in to say to Vivaldi in an undertone, “We did take in that shipment last week.”

“Aye, I remember.” Vivaldi tugged on his beard and crossed his arms over his chest, frowning deeply. “It can be done. Though I’ve no notion of how you’ll carry it all out. Gold and silver are mighty heavy.”

“I’d hoped you might provide me with a cart or three,” Olgierd said.

“As for the transport, I have that covered,” Triss said from her seat against the wall.

Vivaldi brightened. “Mistress Merigold! I didnae see ye there. You’re with Lord von Everec?”

Triss looked at Olgierd for a moment and nodded. “We’re friends.”

“Fine, fine.” Vivaldi pulled out a thin stack of papers from beneath the counter and handed them to Olgierd. “Never let it be said that Vimme Vivaldi didnae serve his clients well. Fill these out, and we’ll go tae the back and start squaring your account.”

“One other thing,” Olgierd said as Vivaldi and the teller turned to go. “I’d like two hundred crowns withdrawn separately in coin. If you could bring that to me sooner than the rest, it would be appreciated.”

“Ye heard the man, Dorna,” Vivaldi told the teller. “Two hundred crowns.”

Dorna hurried ahead of Vivaldi, and Olgierd returned to the other half of the room to sit beside Triss with the forms. He bent over the small table and took up the quill lying on it, dipped it in the provided inkpot, and began filling out the papers.

He was on the final page when Dorna returned and set a heavy silk pouch on the table with a muted clatter. “My thanks,” he said.

“We’ll be a while,” she told him. “An hour, an hour and a half.”

He looked up at that, and she said hastily, “Weights and measurements, evaluating the worth of the gemstones – it’s not like with coins, milord.”

He nodded. “Fair enough. Might I leave Triss Merigold behind as my proxy in the matter? I’ve a few things to attend to in the city.”

Dorna rushed behind the counter and came back with another form for him to fill out. “Sign here…and here… And you, Mistress Merigold… Yes, thank you. That will do.”

“What things?” Triss asked him quietly as Dorna disappeared again.

Olgierd could feel a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth as he returned to filling out the forms. “I’ve a few purchases to make.”

 _“Buy her a pretty bauble, recite her a poem or two. Tell her she’s the most beautiful woman you’ve ever seen."_ He had no need to act on Vlod’s advice now that they were reconciled, but still, the opportunity had presented itself. And he wished to.

Triss rolled her eyes. “She gets the same look on her face when she thinks of you. Go. I’ll be fine here.”

He signed the final page and stood, tying the heavy purse to his belt securely. “I’ll return soon.”

The midday sun shone brightly overhead, illuminating the wares in the carts laid out near the center of the square. Nearby, a flautist and a fiddler played a lively tune while a drummer kept rhythm, and a small crowd watched and clapped. Above it all, voices called to each other – cajoling, berating, teasing, greeting, farewelling.

Olgierd left the shaded overhang of Vivaldi Bank and crossed the crowded square for a small, dusty shop across the way. A small bell tinkled overhead as he pushed open the door, and a bespectacled man in a conservative Redanian doublet looked up from behind the counter. He had the pallor of an Oxenfurt scholar in their final year of study, though he looked far better rested than a university student.

The shopkeep’s eyes flicked up and down, taking in his robe and saber, then paused on his scars and unorthodox hairstyle. “Welcome, milord. How may I assist you? The biographies and histories are against the wall just over there.”

“I’m in need of a book of poetry or two,” Olgierd said. “Something that would please a young noblewoman of Kovir. Perhaps Gonzal de Verceo, or –”

“An excellent choice, milord,” the shopkeep said enthusiastically, losing his wariness at once. “Such turns of phrase, such depth of emotion! The lady in question must have fine taste to appreciate such a poet.”

Olgierd smiled. “That she does.”

The shopkeep got to his feet, his eyes alight. “I may have another volume you’d be interested in. It’s just upstairs – I won’t be but a moment!”

Once again Olgierd was left waiting and leaning on the counter as the shopkeep darted up the crowded, book-lined stairs. He could hear the man muttering, and then finally a triumphant “A- _ha_!” echoed down the stairs.

The shopkeep returned, dust in his hair and his glasses slightly askew, proudly clutching two books. “The one you asked for, milord, ‘The Collected Works of Gonzal de Verceo,’” he said. “And this.”

He reverently laid down the second volume, a thin book bound in rich blue leather. “‘The Blue Pearl.’ The only collection of poems and songs by the late Essi Daven. It’s no longer being printed, unfortunately, so copies are scarce these days.”

Olgierd reached out and flipped ‘The Blue Pearl’ open to a random page. 

The poem had a quiet beauty to it, an honesty and longing that gripped his heart almost tenderly. The final verse resonated with him in a way he hadn’t expected, and his throat went tight as he finished reading. He read aloud the last lines quietly.

“Though my soul may set in darkness, it will rise in perfect light;  
I have loved the stars too fondly to be fearful of the night.”

The shopkeep sighed, his elbows on the counter and his chin cupped in his hand. “A true genius, Essi Daven. The world is poorer without her.”

“I’ll take them both,” he said, closing the book gently. “You’ve fine taste as well, sir.”

“Splendid!” the shopkeep enthused, straightening back up. “That will be twenty-three crowns. And a wonderful day to you, milord!”

Olgierd paid the stated amount and took the two books of poetry, neatly tied up with twine. He tucked them beneath his arm and left the dusty bookstore behind.

Two stores to the left, the windows shone with nary a hint of dust in sight. The contents within glittered and sparkled as the sun shone down and caught each carefully polished facet of diamond, sapphire, ruby, and emerald, all lying on velvet cushions for passers-by to admire. He pulled open the door and another little bell tinkled.

The interior of the jewelry shop was bright and welcoming, with cushioned shelves along every wall displaying necklaces, bracelets, rings, and earrings. Silver and gold shone with a high, lustrous polish, and the jewels gleamed. In the corner of the store, a marble statue stood vigil with sightless eyes. Olgierd stopped and looked it over more closely. But for the robe draped across the elven maid's body, the statue was nearly a twin to the Voticelli he’d toppled in the Garin estate years ago.

“Welcome, milord, to Zolotny and Sons!” the young woman behind the counter called out cheerily. Her curly brown hair was piled in a loose bun atop her head, and her dark olive cheeks had a rosy glow to them. “Granddad, we have a customer!”

Her grandfather, a stoop-shouldered old man with flyaway white hair and pince-nez glasses, looked up from where he was sorting gems in a tray. “And what does the gentleman want?”

“A gift for a lady,” Olgierd said. “A bracelet, or a ring, perhaps.”

The young woman bounced a bit on her toes. “Do you know what gems she wears? Is she warm or cool-toned?"

“Oh, not your nonsense about tones again,” her grandfather muttered.

“Warm,” Olgierd said fondly, thinking of the soft blush that had risen to Josephine’s warm brown cheeks not an hour ago, and the affection that had filled her hazel eyes. “I’ve only ever seen her wear her family’s livery collar, and that’s gold, with a ruby and pearl.”

“Can’t be a necklace, then,” the woman said to herself. She came out from around the counter to peer at the shelves along the walls. “Would she wear a bracelet? What sort of sleeves does she prefer?”

“Long and frilly. The cuffs reach near to her knuckles.”

“Mm. Can’t be too wide or bulky.” The woman began to pull little cushions from the shelves, each holding a shining, glimmering bracelet. “And rings? You seem awfully fond of them yourself, milord, if you’ll pardon the impertinence.”

He couldn’t help chuckling a bit at that. “Her hands are far too slender for rings like mine. I’ve not seen her wear one before.”

“I’ll set out a few for you to look at anyway.”

The woman set out six bracelets and a quartet of rings on the counter, and Olgierd picked them up one by one, holding them to the lamplight and the sunlight coming in from the window to scrutinize them. He pictured the bracelets on Josephine’s graceful wrist, and the rings on her delicate fingers, and immediately set two of the bracelets and half the rings aside. The others he began to give more consideration.

The bell on the door rang behind him, and a half-familiar voice called out, “I’m here to pick up my…order…”

Olgierd set the ring he held back on the counter carefully.

“Ataman, sir?” The voice was tentative. There was a depth of fear to it that gave Olgierd the same lurching, vertiginous feeling that the portal had.

He turned slowly to see a dark-haired man in his thirties, his pale face rapidly turning white with terror. He wore the robe of a Redanian noble and gripped the hilt of his saber as if it were the only thing anchoring him to the earth.

He still had that unfortunate mustache. And the last time Olgierd had seen him, he’d been scrambling away into the dark in a panic, having narrowly escaped losing his head outside the Garin estate.

“Herodore,” Olgierd greeted him, deliberately neutral.

The woman glanced between them and slipped back around the counter. Her enthusiasm from only minutes ago was nowhere to be seen as she watched them with wary eyes.

Herodore’s hand twitched on his saber’s hilt, and Olgierd lunged forward to grab his wrist.

“Still an impetuous fool,” he said sharply. “This is a jewelry shop, not a dueling hall. Keep your blade sheathed. The Witcher won your life once. Don’t toss it away on a whim.”

“A _whim_?” Herodore cried. “You were going to kill me! Me! I was loyal as anyone! I fought with you, drank with you – I would have ridden against the Black Ones on your orders!”

“I wasn’t worth that loyalty,” Olgierd said. “My code was shite. ‘Sacred law of hospitality’ – we foisted ourselves upon the unwilling and burned their holdings to the ground. Loyalty to a monster is nothing to boast of.”

“But we were a company,” Herodore protested. “Noble sons and daughters, all of us.”

“We were whoresons,” Olgierd said flatly. “We preyed on peasants and peers alike.”

Herodore stared at him in fright and bewilderment. “You left,” he said after a long moment. “I heard the rumors. The Free Company disbanded years ago when you disappeared. What happened?”

Olgierd released his wrist and stepped away, turning toward the marble statue in the corner of the store. “You see that statue?”

Herodore answered him reluctantly, as if his question contained a hidden trap. “I see it.”

“A sculptor toiled over that piece for months, chiseling out each fold of cloth, each strand of hair. Mark the lifelike expression on the maiden’s face, how she seems to hold a youthful amusement in her stone eyes, and how her lips are parted as if she’s about to speak. There’s a softness to her that invites the viewer to linger and appreciate not just the artistry, but the subject captured. Does she not inspire some emotion in you, Herodore? Nostalgia for your lost youth, or a shared delight in her merriment?”

Herodore looked at the statue, then back to Olgierd uncertainly.

“Go on,” Olgierd said. “Look your fill. That’s a masterpiece you stand before.”

The woman spoke up hesitantly. “Voticelli. It’s been in the family for three generations.”

“Quiet, Klara!” her grandfather admonished her. “Milords, we don’t want any trouble in our shop.”

“And there won’t be, will there, Herodore?”

Herodore stared at the statue of the elven maiden in her robe for several silent seconds, then turned back to Olgierd in frustration and bafflement. “Nostalgia? Softness? I don’t understand. This isn’t like you.”

Olgierd gave him a quelling look and pulled his saber free a few inches. As Herodore jumped back in alarm, he swiped the pad of his thumb over its keen edge and sheathed it again.

“Look,” he said, holding out the bleeding digit. “Do you understand now?”

Herodore looked down at the thumb held between them, at the bright red blood oozing from the wound. He seemed to freeze for a moment at the impossibility of the thing. Then he sighed and rubbed his eyes as his shoulders slumped.

“That curse of yours. The Witcher broke your curse.” He turned to Olgierd, the fear fading from his face, and said with admirable aplomb, “I fear I mistook you for someone I knew years ago, sir. It’s clear I know you not at all.”

It was a shaky, unwarranted gesture of peace that Olgierd didn’t deserve. He accepted it with a nod and a faint smile. “It wouldn’t even be the first time I was mistaken for someone I wasn’t today.”

“I’ll leave you to your shopping,” Herodore said. “Good day to you, sir.”

He stepped a safe distance from Olgierd and went to the counter, coin purse in hand. The grandfather handed him a small velvet pouch and said gruffly, “Seventy-six crowns, milord.”

Herodore paid the amount and walked back to the door. He paused and spoke over his shoulder. “Ataman, sir. I hope to the gods I never see you again.”

The bell tinkled and the door slammed, and Olgierd said quietly, “Likewise.”

The young woman, Klara, silently held out a handkerchief to him to wrap his thumb in, and he thanked her quietly. She scooped up the discarded ring and bracelets and returned them to the shelves, then took up her place behind the counter again to watch him examine the remaining jewelry with a serious, cautious expression.

“This one,” he said finally, setting out a bracelet before her. It was a delicate piece, almost reminiscent of elven jewelry, with cunningly sculpted gold leaves and petals affixed along a thin, flat band, and small pearls and rubies set in the centers of the blossoms. “And this one.”

The other was a thin gold ring, deceptively simple in style, with a lustrous silvery-white pearl the size of his smallest fingernail framed by two deep red rubies.

Klara took the bracelet and slipped it into a velvet pouch. “Will the ring fit your lady, milord?”

He picked it up and slipped it on to his little finger, and it caught on his second knuckle. “It will fit.”

She nodded and added the ring to the pouch. “That’ll be one hundred and sixty-two crowns.”

Olgierd untied his purse from his belt and set it on the counter. “Keep it all. For the trouble we caused you.”

She emptied the purse and counted the coins out swiftly, then looked up at him as her hand hovered over the extra fifteen crowns. “Milord –”

“Say thank you to the ataman, Klara,” her grandfather whispered.

Olgierd shook his head. “Just Olgierd, sir. I’m no ataman. It’s as Squire Herodore said. He mistook me for another.”

“Yes,” Klara agreed slowly. “He must have.”

She handed him his purchases, and he tucked the pouch away and left with a quiet word of thanks.

The square was as bright and bustling as before, but there was a difference to it, something subtle he couldn’t put his finger on. It wasn’t the rollicking tune, or the vendors hawking their wares. It wasn’t the cacophony of voices, the smell, or the press of bodies.

Whatever it was, his heart felt lighter, and he smiled as a pair of children ran past him, laughing merrily with their mother in pursuit. He set off for the bank, Josephine's books beneath his arm, and her jewelry stowed away in his robe.

The sun felt warm and welcoming on his back, and just for a moment, he regretted not keeping a coin to toss to the musicians as he passed. Two sweethearts danced together before them, hands joined and bright smiles on their shining faces.

 _What were those dances Josephine mentioned? The sarabande and the volte?_ He’d need to learn those.

He wove through the lively crowd and stopped beneath the shaded overhang of Vivaldi bank. Time had passed faster than he’d thought, judging by the sun’s position. It was nearly time to return.

He pulled open the door and stopped short just inside. A strange woman stood at Triss' side, her hand on her shoulder. She wore a rich, carmine-red dress with a plunging neckline and bare arms, and around her throat and wrists, she had jewelry of black agates. Her lips, dramatically red against her pale, freckled face, matched her gown. Her dark hair was a picturesque, tousled mess, and her deep brown eyes were sharp, if not slightly small for their sockets.

An exotic fragrance, cinnamon and something like vetiver or spikenard, filled the room, and another faint wave of it wafted his way as the strange woman tossed her head and said to Triss in an arch, alto voice, “Surely you didn’t think your visit would go unnoticed, Triss. I have eyes everywhere.”

“It’s just a favor for a friend, Philippa,” Triss said. “Personal business.”

“Mm, yes, and somehow your ‘personal business’ has kept you away from King Tankred’s court for so long he’s begun looking for a new magical advisor.”

Triss briefly looked stricken before she controlled her expression. “I’ve been experimenting with alchemy. Studying addiction.”

“Always the bleeding heart, aren’t you?” Philippa looked over to the door and raised her eyebrow at Olgierd. “And this is the friend? Well, I can’t say your tastes have improved, but at least you’ve moved on from trying to take Yennefer’s place in the Witcher’s bed. That was never going to end in your favor.”

Triss flushed and pulled away from Philippa’s hand.

Philippa’s carmine lips curled into a small, smug smile. “Careful, Triss. I suspect you don’t want anyone looking too closely at your ‘personal business.’ Why, someone might start asking what happened to Ciri in the battle against the _Dearg Ruadhri_.”

Triss didn’t react. “Ciri died.”

“That is what Geralt and Yennefer said, isn’t it? Do take care, Triss. I’m sure we’ll see each other again soon.”

Philippa swept out of the bank with another wave of her exotic perfume, leaving Olgierd with a shaking, furious Triss.

“Easy,” he said as he helped her sit back down.

“She is _infuriating_!” Triss hissed. “Geralt and Yenna will have to know –”

“That was the infamous Philippa Eilhart, I take it?” he asked.

Triss nodded. “Head of the Lodge of Sorceresses, former advisor to King Radovid, and current advisor to Emperor Emhyr.”

“A woman with power and influence enough to cause a great deal of trouble. Agreed, the Witcher and Yennefer should know of her threat.”

A creaking, groaning sound came from down the hall, and they turned to see Vivaldi and Dorna straining to push two wheeled carts, each laden with two iron-banded and padlocked chests. They jumped up to help them get the carts into the room.

“There ye are, Lord von Everec, all your monetary assets,” Vivaldi said, puffing slightly from the exertion. “Gold and silver bars, precious gems, and half a chest of orens, florens, and crowns. Ah, and here are the keys.”

“My thanks, Master Vivaldi,” Olgierd said. “And to you, Dorna.”

“May I make a portal from here?” Triss asked Vivaldi. “Leaving the bank with so much money seems unwise.”

Vivaldi harrumphed and eyed his furnishings. “Aye, I suppose. But you mind how your spell hits my carpet, lass.”

For the third time in two hours, Triss turned and summoned a swirling orange portal that scraped the ceiling and rattled the painting on the wall. The four of them pushed the carts through with a grunt of effort, and Triss and Olgierd followed behind.

It deposited them in Casteldaccia’s foyer in front of a statuesque blond woman who stared at them and the carts in deep disapproval.

“You can’t just teleport into the rooms like this,” the woman said sternly. “The first cart almost hit one of my students.”

“Sorry, Rita!” Triss said. There was an edge of exhaustion in her voice, no doubt from all the magic she’d expended. “Listen – Philippa cornered us in Novigrad a few minutes ago. She hinted that she has suspicions about Ciri. Could you tell Geralt and Yenna for me?”

The woman he assumed was Margarita Laux-Antille seemed surprised, then worried.

“Of course, but why not tell them yourself?” she asked.

Triss shook her head. “I might just be letting Philippa get to me. You know how she can be. But just in case…”

“I do know,” Margarita sighed. “She loves getting under people’s skin. Don’t worry; I’ll pass on the message.”

“Thank you.”

Triss set her hands on the first cart’s handles and pushed it through the glowing blue-green portal, her arms and back straining from the weight. Olgierd held on to the second cart and gave it a hard shove, following in her wake.

The sun was just beginning to set over the Trevelyans’ manor when he came through behind Triss, and the early spring air had a crisp, sweet quality to it. Triss sat on the first cart and shook out her arms.

“One more time,” she said, and she took a deep, tired breath. “And then we figure out how to get the chests back up to the keep. If I were Keira, I’d transform them into something that could walk up on their own.”

“Could always teleport right into the vault,” he suggested in amusement, and he sat as well.

She groaned. “I’m too tired to think that’s a bad idea. Just…give me a minute.”

“However long you need,” he agreed.

Olgierd leaned back and pulled the books of poetry out from under his arm. There was still time yet until he was too late to meet Josephine for supper, and he wanted a chance to memorize one of the poems before he gifted the books to her.

He shot another look at Triss from behind ‘The Blue Pearl,’ his good mood fading slightly. He hoped Eilhart’s taunts were only that – taunts. But he couldn’t help but fear otherwise.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The excerpted lines of the poem are from Sarah Williams' "The Old Astronomer to His Pupil". Thank you to elfblooded for pointing me at it!


	52. Red Lyrium and Grey Wardens

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ciri, Varric, and Dorian go to the Hinterlands to deal with Bianca's problem. Soldier's Peak sends a couple of familiar faces their way to assist.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> beta-read by brightspot149. Thank you!

“You’re sure your help will be there in time?” Varric asked again as they rode toward the Lake Luthias camp. “The three of us and Bianca aren’t exactly what I’d call ‘good odds’ against whatever darkspawn might be down in the Deep Roads.”

“I’m sure,” Ciri said.

Early spring in the Hinterlands was beautiful. The air held a chill that the cloudless sky couldn’t quite warm through, and the bushes that lined the dirt roads were covered in the dark green leaves and small buds of new growth. The region seemed much more settled since last they’d been here; no bandits troubled them, no mages or Templars clashed along the West Road.

As they entered the camp, Ciri tossed Varric and Dorian a smile and pointed to the picket line. “See?”

Two horses stood placidly in place already, their leads tied and their saddles removed. Ciri slid from Zephyr’s back and handed her reins to a waiting scout.

“Scout Cyra,” she greeted her. “Where are the Wardens?”

Scout Cyra grinned. “Out by the entrance already, Your Worship. Sure is strange seeing Scout Malika in Warden blue. Warden Malika now, I guess.”

“I take it Blackwall and Malika finished their task at Soldier’s Peak?” Dorian asked Ciri as he dismounted.

“My raven to Warden-Constable Howe asked for any available Wardens to assist us,” she told him. “If Malika’s one of them, then I suppose they must have.”

Varric slid to the ground and handed off the reins to Scout Tavin. “Why keep this under your hat, Songbird? You know Bianca would be happy to have the extra hands, especially Warden ones.”

“Would she?” Ciri asked him quietly. “She did want us to keep this secret, after all.”

Varric looked away. “That’s – she and I have to be discreet. I know it looked suspicious. But we almost started a clan war once, and we’re contractually obligated by the Merchants’ Guild to stay a country apart because of it. Long story,” he said with a wave of his hand. “The fewer people who know about her involvement, the better.”

Ciri bit back the questions that rose to her lips. His short explanation cleared up some of her suspicions about Bianca, but not all of them. The careful way she’d spoken of the thaig, and redirected Ciri and Varric from speculating on the source of the leak, still itched at her.

"If you say so," she said instead and turned away to look over her sword and armor.

They set off up the shaded path toward Lake Luthias together, Ciri in the lead. She paused at a rustle in the undergrowth up ahead and relaxed as a small, large-eared fox darted out. It chittered playfully and dashed away, its bushy tail bouncing behind it.

The lake was as beautiful as Ciri remembered, with tall, proud trees along the shore and a clear blue color to its water. The sun reflected off the rippling surface like a scattered handful of diamonds, sparkling brightly. Not for the first time, she wondered what odes Dandelion would compose to a land like this.

They walked down to where the waterfall thundered down and crossed the teetering pier to the other side of the narrowest end of the lake. There, a manmade embankment shored up with stone sloped around, and they followed it up.

Rainier and Malika awaited them behind the waterfall, both clad in new Grey Warden uniforms. Rainier's scuffed breastplate and worn green gambeson were nowhere to be seen. He looked every inch the part of a Constable of the Grey in blue leather and white steel scale armor beneath a new helm, breastplate, pauldrons, gauntlets, and tassets. Malika’s looked more maneuverable, with a hood in place of a helm, and only a breastplate and tassets covering the leather and scale armor.

Malika waved to them. “Thought we’d have to head in without you!” she said cheerfully.

Ciri’s answering greeting caught in her throat. Malika’s left eye was a starburst of broken blood vessels. The green of her iris seemed to glow in contrast to the red surrounding it. “What happened?”

“Oh, this? Pfft.” Malika flipped a dismissive hand at her. “I came through in the end. That’s all that matters, Your Handiness.”

“Velanna says it will heal, given time,” Rainier interjected.

“And I’m a full-fledged Grey Warden now!” Malika said. “Got the uniform and everything.” She grinned. “‘Conscripted by Love’ was pretty accurate about the stamina thing, you know.”

Dorian broke into delighted laughter. “And here I thought Wardens were required by law to be dour and stoic about their honor. You’ll certainly liven up your new order, won’t you?”

“Ass,” Rainier said with gruff affection.

Ciri slipped past them to face the door, digging into her belt pouch. Her hand closed on a cold, thin metal rod, and she pulled out the iron key Malika had given her months ago. As she’d expected they would, the geometric engravings down the shank matched the carvings on the door. She slotted the key into the lock and turned it, and she heard a faint sound of tumblers falling into place.

“Let’s go,” she told the others, “but be wary. Bianca warned us about Carta dwarves using this entrance, and we ought to expect darkspawn deeper in.”

Rainier and Malika nodded.

“Aye, that’s why we’re here,” Rainier said.

Ciri shoved open the door and led the way inside. The thundering sound of the waterfall immediately cut off as the door slammed shut behind them, and she blinked as the bright sunlight gave way to a dim, cavernous interior. Rough lichens clung to the stone walls enclosing them while pale ferns grew below. Up ahead, a tall torch burned, illuminating a carved stone staircase.

“Finally,” a voice called out softly from the shadows. “I was starting to get worried.”

Bianca stepped forward into the faint light. Her bright lipstick was nowhere to be seen, and her clothes looked rumpled, as if she'd been sleeping in them.

“No one said you had to wait inside for us,” Varric said.

“Well, I did,” Bianca said shortly. “So, let’s get started, shall we? The Carta are already preparing to move another shipment. The idiots are carrying it out in unprotected containers. We don’t want to be here long enough for it to start ‘talking’ to us.”

“You seem to know more about red lyrium than most people we’ve run into,” Ciri said.

“Varric told me about what it did to him…and to Bartrand,” Bianca added.

Ciri nodded. “How did you even figure out what was going on here in the first place?” she asked. “There must be dozens, no, hundreds of Deep Roads entrances. The odds of you stumbling across something like this are incredibly low.”

“I’ve used this entrance in the past,” Bianca said with an easy shrug. “Varric’s not the only surface dwarf to explore the Deep Roads.”

Ciri’s prickle of suspicion itched at her again.

“Do you know which Carta clan this is?” Malika asked Bianca.

Bianca looked at her, then past her at Rainier. “You brought Grey Wardens?” she asked Varric, an unreadable tone to her voice.

“The Inquisitor thought it would be useful to have experts along in the Deep Roads,” he told her. “We know them, Bianca. They’ve both been with the Inquisition from nearly the beginning.”

“Warden Malika Cadash,” Malika said. She held out her hand for Bianca to shake.

A flicker of recognition went through Bianca’s eyes at Malika’s name. “Bianca Davri.”

“A Davri and a Tethras,” Malika said with a bright smile, rubbing her hands together. “I’m in exalted company.”

“Warden Blackwall,” Rainier interrupted. He shot Ciri a covert look as he shook Bianca’s hand, and she gave him a subtle nod of understanding.

He’d come clean when he was ready. Rainier had been living a lie for years; it would take time for him to adjust to the idea of living under his own name again. Ciri did understand, in a way. She, too, had faked her own death to escape pursuit, though it wasn’t a hangman’s noose that awaited her should she be discovered.

“Good to meet you both,” Bianca said after a beat. “And no, I’m not sure what clan this is. They called their Dasher Boyan, and I heard a few other names. Lada, Jirka, and Vuk.”

“Clan Guron,” Malika said with a nod. “They’re more unscrupulous than most. I don’t think their Dasher has any lines he won’t cross in search of a profit. The Cadash clan didn’t usually do business with them – they’re Ferelden based, and Cadash is more of a Marcher operation.”

“Whoever they are, they’ve done enough damage,” Bianca said impatiently. “Let’s stop them and get out of here.”

“We’re right behind you,” Ciri said.

They headed up the stone stairs cautiously, weapons drawn, and began to cross the wide stone walkway suspended over a gaping chasm. Flickering torchlight ahead revealed a stone structure, with more stairs leading up to a large building with doors and small windows. Short, sturdy shapes moved in the distance.

Rainier took the lead and raised his shield, and Dorian silently cast a barrier over their stealthily approaching group. Malika and Bianca nocked arrows to their bowstrings as Varric slotted a bolt into his crossbow.

A low cry of alarm rang out ahead, and a handful of arrows flew toward them out of the dark. Rainier battered one away with his shield, and Ciri dodged. Their trio of archers loosed their arrows and bolt in response to the volley.

“Keep moving!” Ciri urged them.

They crossed quickly, ducking the oncoming arrows as Dorian’s barrier deflected the brunt of their energy. A half-dozen Carta dwarves awaited them on the other side, each one of them armed to the teeth. They all hung back near the stairs, leery of charging their party with the sheer drop into the chasm so close by.

Dorian swept his staff out and lightning arced down from the far-off stone ceiling to strike three of the waiting Carta dwarves. Ciri and Rainier dashed to the stairs with swords drawn, and Ciri braced against a blow from a burly dwarf wielding an axe. She spun away at the last second, sending him stumbling down the stairs below her, and lashed out at his back with _Gynvael_ as he passed. He cursed and cried out, jerking around to face her.

Pain made his next attack sloppy and weak. She dodged it easily and thrust her blade home.

The others finished their fights quickly and gathered on the stairs. Ciri looked around at the sprawled corpses and raised her eyes to Dorian’s. “A fire will alert anyone here that we’re coming, Carta or darkspawn. Will you see to their remains on the way out?”

“I wouldn’t dream of doing otherwise,” he assured her.

They left the stairs, heading up to the balcony running along the outside of the building. There was a remarkable amount of greenery down here considering the lack of sunlight. Not just mosses and lichens, but thick, bushy ferns as well. The lighting coming from up above was pale and almost blue in tone. Ciri squinted up at the ceiling. She could just barely make out massive crystal and metal lamps suspended far above them, still glowing after all these many centuries.

Malika pushed open one of the doors along the balcony and immediately jumped away as a Carta dwarf leaped out brandishing daggers. Rainier smashed the would-be ambusher back with his shield, sending her flying into the wall.

“Rude,” Malika muttered as she nocked another arrow to her bowstring.

“Careful, love,” Rainier cautioned her.

Dorian thrust his staff through the doorway and summoned another bright, arcing surge of lightning. Strangled, pained yells, as if through clenched jaws, could be heard from within. Malika stuck her head back around the doorway and loosed three arrows in quick succession. “That’s that.”

Ciri took a look over her head. Other than the three corpses, the room held nothing but a stone table covered in food. “Let’s keep moving.”

They moved on, heading deeper into the abandoned thaig. Heavy carts filled with chunks of red lyrium sat abandoned on the balcony, and they gave off a faint, ominous whine as they passed by. Bianca shook her head at them in disapproval and turned to Varric.

“So, this is what you do now?”

“Beg pardon?” he asked.

“Skulking around in caves, killing people,” she elaborated. The flirtatious tone she’d had in Skyhold was back. “Is this your day to day?”

“I do my best to avoid the caves,” he said. He didn’t seem to either notice or respond to the flirtation.

“There was that time in Crestwood,” Dorian reminded him. “You remember, with the blighted undead and all the demons, and that giant rift in the middle of the dwarven outpost.”

“Like I said,” Varric said with a grimace. “I do my best.”

The balcony curved around to another staircase that led down into darkness. Across the way, Ciri could see another walkway and a small, carved door. She nodded to Dorian, who cast another barrier over their group. Rainier took the lead again.

An arrow collided with his shield as they reached the bottom of the stairs, and two Carta dwarves materialized from the shadows. Malika and Bianca drew and loosed, and the dwarves staggered, swearing loudly. Lightning cut through the darkness once more, and the dwarves fell.

Something moved in the darkness beyond the landing, and Rainier and Malika stiffened.

“Darkspawn?” Ciri asked quietly.

“Aye,” Rainier said, his eyes hard. “Just the one nearby, but there are several more not too far from here. That way…and that way.” He nodded across to the other walkway, and at the doorway at the foot of the landing.

“There weren’t darkspawn the last time I came here,” Bianca said. “Maybe the Carta dug a tunnel too deep.”

“That would be just like Clan Guron,” Malika scoffed. She held an arrow slack to her bowstring and looked to Ciri. “Which way, Your Handiness? There’s a cluster of darkspawn behind that door – not right behind it, but a ways back. But there’s one that feels like a real monster up ahead.”

“Bianca?” Ciri prompted her.

“Our destination is farther in, down below,” she said. “We can see what’s behind that door on the way back. My guess? More Carta, and they’re in over their heads.”

Malika shook her head. “Better to deal with the Carta problem before we have to tangle with the darkspawn. They might have answers about how they even got involved in this, too.”

Ciri could see the merits to both approaches. Ultimately, however, the door was just a few feet away, and she did want answers.

“Let’s see if it’s locked.”

She stood carefully to the side and nudged the door open, and an arrow shot through the opening. Dorian cast a barrier over everyone as Rainier took the lead again, his shield held in front of him.

“I want someone taken alive to answer questions!” Ciri called after him as she followed him in.

Arrows and bolts flew from behind her into the warmly lit room. The crackle of lightning accompanied them. Ciri darted forward to engage a rough-looking Carta tough, dancing to the side as he struck out at her with his daggers.

Dorian shouted something Ciri couldn’t quite make out as she dodged the flashing daggers again. Then the world – shifted. She could feel it in her veins, like adrenaline almost. It wasn’t like Hawke’s slowing spell, yet suddenly the Carta dwarves seemed to be moving at a snail’s pace. She lashed out hard against the dwarf’s head with _Gynvael_ ’s pommel, and her opponent dropped like a stone.

Most of the others had fallen, but the big one with the maul was still putting up a fight. Ciri went to Rainier’s aid, striking at the big one’s side as he battered him from the other. An arrow struck him in the chest, then another in the thigh. He toppled over, bleeding heavily, and Ciri staggered as the spell abruptly ended.

“Was that what you meant by ‘interesting properties’?” she asked Dorian with a gesture toward his staff.

Dorian smiled in satisfaction. “Did you like it? I’ve been playing around with that for the last two months trying to work out the kinks.”

“It was certainly helpful.” Ciri turned to the unconscious dwarf she’d struck with _Gynvael_ ’s pommel and bent to strip him of his weapons. “Does anyone have any rope?”

Once the dwarf was secured, Varric took his flask of water from his belt and upended it over his head. The dwarf twitched, then sputtered. He groaned in pain and looked around.

“…Getchu, you bastards… Maferath’s hairy nuts, that’s Boyan!” He flinched away from Varric and Ciri, his eyes fixed on the large corpse in the center of the room. “You killed the Dasher, you did! You killed everyone! Lada – shit, _Lada!_ ”

“Focus,” Ciri said. She pushed back the wave of regret that rose in her at the real grief in his words. “Who hired you to mine lyrium for the red Templars?”

“I’m not tellin’ you nothin’!”

Malika stepped forward and squatted down in front of him. “What’s behind that door, _salroka_?” she asked with a nod to the heavy, ornate door at the back of the room. Both its handles had been removed – deliberately, Ciri thought.

The dwarf shuddered. “Nothin’ good.”

“Tell the Inquisitor what she wants to know, and I won’t track down the mechanisms to open it and stick you in there. Alone. Without a weapon.”

The dwarf squinted at her and scoffed. “Cadash. Got the looks. Edric’s…sister? Cousin?”

Malika gave him a toothy smile. “Eddie’s dead.”

“Shit.” The dwarf scooted away a few inches only to run into Varric’s hand, clamping down on his shoulder like iron. “Arright, arright! The…the Templars. Boyan met with a human around a year back. Little taller than average. Pasty. Stringy black hair. I wasn’t in the meeting, but he came out of it all excited. Said we’d be richer than the sods in the Merchants’ Guild if we kept up our end of the deal.”

“And the deal was?” Ciri asked.

“Come down here,” the dwarf said grudgingly. “Mine the red lyrium and cart it out for the human mercenaries to pass on to the Templars. Easy enough. The man gave him keys and clear directions. But this stuff – we’ve been losing dusters to it. Boyan had to kill Liska and Brennor for trying to keep some for themselves. He thought they just wanted to sell some on the side, but Jirka said Brennor thought it was singing to him.”

He narrowed his eyes at Ciri. “You messed with the operation, having your ox-men brutes kill the human mercs. We had to find new idiots to train up to run the lyrium out to the Templars.”

“If you want to live, you’ll tell our spymaster everything she wants to know,” Ciri told him. “Names, dates, locations, shipments.”

For a second, it looked like the dwarf was going to agree. Then he turned his face to the side and stared at another fallen dwarf, and his eyes hardened. “Think I’ve talked enough.”

“The room with the darkspawn is still an option,” Malika suggested.

The dwarf spat. “Doesn’t matter how long you wear that fancy blue uniform, duster. You’ll still be Carta.”

Malika just smiled, unperturbed. “I know what I’m worth, _salroka_.”

“I’m not talkin’,” the dwarf sneered. “You might as well kill me.”

Ciri hesitated, and the dwarf’s sneer deepened. He struggled against Varric’s iron grip, straining toward Ciri.

“Can’t finish the job?” he taunted her. “You were happy enough killin’ my cousins and my sister.”

She stifled the impulse to apologize. “What can we offer you for your cooperation?”

The dwarf burst into harsh laughter. “Ooh-ho! First it’s ‘if you wanna live.’ Now you’re beggin’ not to kill me. Fuck off and grow some stones, girly. I’m. Not. Talkin’.”

An arrow flew from behind Ciri and Malika and lodged deep in the dwarf’s chest. He slumped in Varric’s grip with a pained gurgle, his eyelids fluttering, and died. Ciri whirled around to face Bianca in a fury.

“He was tied up! Helpless!”

“It’s what he wanted,” Bianca shot back. “He wasn’t going to be any use to you. He was trying to goad you into it. I spared you having to do it yourself.”

“Bravado,” Malika argued. “And grief. We were interrogating him in a room full of his family’s corpses. He might have come around.”

Bianca shook her head. “Even if he did, you’d have to leave him here to possibly free himself, then come back for him, get him back to your camp, keep him under guard there where he might escape again to go alert the rest of his clan or the red Templars, and find a way to get him back to Skyhold where he might feed your spymaster a pack of lies. Was he really worth the effort?”

“She has a point,” Varric said reluctantly. “But Bianca…”

“Yes, fine. Sorry. Next time, I won’t kill your prisoners. Even if it’s the smart decision.”

Ciri glared at her but let it go. She turned back to the dead dwarf at her feet and sighed. “I didn’t even get his name.”

“Not your fault, Your Handiness,” Malika said, giving her a quick pat on the arm. “Come on. Let’s burn their bodies and get moving again.”

They piled the bodies in the center of the room and stood well back as Dorian conjured searing hot flames to consume them. The fire licked at the ceiling, leaving black scorch marks on the stone as the corpses rapidly charred and turned to bone and ash. Dorian smothered the embers with an ice spell and looked around at the wrecked room.

“Is that one of the handles to the door?” he asked with a gesture to a heavy-looking wheel lying in the corner.

“I think it must be,” Ciri said. “Should we find the other?”

Bianca shrugged. “Orzammar-made doors will hold for millennia. Unless the Wardens need to get behind it, those darkspawn aren’t getting out in this age or the next.”

“We should deal with it on the way back, just to be thorough,” Malika said. “Handsome?”

“Aye,” Rainier agreed. “And we’ll need to be careful. Whatever’s in there will be covered in Blight sickness thanks to those monsters being locked in with it.”

“Then we’ll leave it alone for now, and come back to it later,” Ciri decided. “Let’s go take care of Bianca’s business. Blackwall, you lead the way.”

They left the room and headed out across the bridge together, Rainier and Malika in the lead. A crude black arrow sailed toward them to skitter off Rainier’s shield, and Malika loosed one back, her eyes narrowed. Rainier nodded at her and went ahead with his sword drawn.

He returned shortly, black blood dripping from his blade and spattered across his breastplate. “There are two more on the far walkway,” he reported, “and I sense a large one not far below us. The stairs down to the left are clear.”

“That’s not nearly as bad as the prison in the Western Approach,” Ciri said. “Let’s continue, but be careful.”

The stairs to the left led down away from the walkway, where Ciri could just make out another tall, angular figure in the shadows.

"We'll want to take care of them before we leave," Rainier said as if reading her thoughts. "The Hinterlands have seen enough trouble. We don't want to risk darkspawn running loose on the surface.”

Ciri nodded her understanding. She wouldn’t say so, not in mixed company, but actually becoming a Grey Warden had done wonders for him. Gone were the somewhat blustery proclamations of bravery and justice. In their place was a steely-eyed warrior who seemed determined to live up to the words he’d been speaking since they met.

They stopped before a cleverly carved stone door with no apparent hinge or handle set into the solid rock face. Bianca slid in front of Rainier and Malika and looked the door up and down with faint pride.

“I built this door,” she said. “They probably shut it from the other side when they heard all the commotion upstairs.”

Ciri eyed her, suspicion rearing its head again. If she built them, then how did the Carta know how to use them?

“I suppose you have a way to get in,” was all she said.

“Stand back and watch a master at work, Inquisitor.”

Bianca pressed firmly on well-hidden recessed plates in the door, and with a quiet grinding noise, it slid down and out of their way.

“Ta-da!” Bianca said, waving her hand at the doorway.

Ciri held back the accusatory questions she had about the doors and the Carta and just listened quietly for a few seconds. Shuffling feet and the rasp of metal against leather came from beyond the doorway, and she nodded to Dorian and pulled out her sword.

Dorian cast another barrier over them and edged close to the door. He thrust his skull-topped staff into the room, and a bright flash of light and pained cries followed as lightning answered his summons. They rushed through to find four Carta dwarves arrayed around a low stone table in varying states of injury. A spiky growth of red lyrium, almost as tall as Rainier, hummed against the far wall.

Ciri lunged for the nearest dwarf, _Gynvael_ at the ready. Arrows flew from behind her. The dwarf caught her blow on the haft of his mace with a grunt and broke away. She skipped back a step and feinted to the side. The dwarf followed, and she struck him cleanly across the chest, her blade cutting deep. He staggered and fell, his mace hitting the stone floor with a clang.

Rainier cut down his opponent as the other two fell, bristling with arrows. Ciri paused for a breath and looked to Bianca.

“How much farther?” she asked.

Bianca jerked her thumb at the door at the end of the room. “Just beyond that. But we should prepare for a bigger fight.”

Rainier went to the door and stood to the side. "Get clear," he ordered everyone and shoved it open.

Arrows flew out through the opening along with a low, oppressive whine. Dorian swept his staff over them and the strange adrenaline-like feeling flooded Ciri again. She raced through the doorway on Rainier’s heels.

She cut through a Carta dwarf that moved like molasses to her eyes, then sped to a hulking brute wielding a maul. A slash, a thrust, and he fell, barely aware that she'd even struck him in the first place.

All around her, red lyrium hummed. It grew from the walls in ragged spires and filled carts and chests. Her head began to ache ever so slightly. She shook it and shot toward a third dwarf.

Dorian’s hastening spell ended abruptly, and she stumbled just a bit as time caught up with her. She turned the stumble into a precise somersault, ducking beneath a dwarf’s swing of their axe and coming up to strike.

“This feels almost like old times,” Bianca said once all the Carta dwarves lay dead.

Varric raised an eyebrow at her. “I don’t remember ever killing anyone with you.”

“Remember crashing Bartrand’s Guild dinner? We may as well have killed him.”

“This isn’t nearly as dangerous as pissing off my brother,” Varric said. There was a tone to his voice that said there was a story there.

Ciri rubbed her forehead. The sound of the red lyrium seemed even worse with so much of it gathered all together. Malika and Rainier barely seemed affected, but Dorian and Varric had wrinkles between their brows that spoke of an impending headache, and there was a rigidity to Bianca’s posture that hadn’t been there before.

“Back this way,” Bianca said.

She led them past the whining, humming lyrium to the far end of the room, where a highly polished mahogany table stood beside another of Bianca’s doors, bearing books and an open ledger. It seemed incongruous in a place where everything was made of stone, even the furniture. In the center of the ledger, in plain view, a key lay.

Bianca hurried over and scooped up the key. “There you are!”

She inserted the key into a hidden keyhole, and the door locked with the sound of grinding gears and tumblers falling into place. Her rigid shoulders dropped, and she let out a sigh of relief.

“No one will be able to use this entrance again.”

“Oh, for…” Varric shook his head slowly as realization dawned. “Bianca.”

“Your doors,” Ciri said quietly. “Your key. The thaig ‘was leaked.’ And you’re the one responsible.”

“It’s not like that!” Bianca protested. “Not…entirely.”

Ciri rubbed her head again. “Let’s talk in the other room. This place is making it hard to think.”

The faint, oppressive whine of the red lyrium faded in the other room. They stood well away from the sole growth coming from the corner between the wall and the floor and turned to Bianca for an explanation.

“Please, do explain how you’re ‘not entirely’ the leak when red lyrium is growing all across Thedas,” Ciri said with icy civility.

Bianca’s eyes darted to Varric. “When I got the location from Varric, I decided to go and have a look for myself. And I found the red lyrium, and I…studied it.”

“Why?” Varric demanded. “I told you what it does to people!”

“Exactly!” Bianca snapped. “I was doing you a favor. You told me what it did to your brother. I thought if I found answers, maybe we could get him out of that sanatorium someday. You’ve had people studying it for years now and they haven’t come up with anything useful. I just…wanted to help figure it out.”

Varric huffed and crossed his arms. “And did you?”

“Actually…yes.” Bianca leaned forward, her eyes alight with her discovery. “Red lyrium – it has the _Blight_ , Varric. But the Blight doesn’t infect minerals, only animals. Which means that lyrium is alive! Or something like it.”

“That makes sense, actually,” Ciri said. “Triss was studying the composition of lyrium in blood, and she said it didn’t look like a mineral to her.” She left off that it had appeared bacterial as she was unsure how advanced Bianca’s knowledge was.

“Hold a moment.” Rainier stared at Bianca with a dark frown on his scarred, bearded face. “You mean to say all this cursed lyrium we keep finding all over Thedas is Blighted? Why didn’t you go to the Wardens with this?”

“I did,” Bianca told him swiftly. “As soon as I figured it out. I went looking for a Grey Warden mage. What better – Blight and magical expertise in one, right? And I found someone, a Warden mage named Larius. He seemed really interested in helping with my research. So, I gave him a key.”

_ “Larius?” _ Varric echoed incredulously. “You’re kidding. He was in the old Grey Warden prison where Hawke and I killed Corypheus. He wasn’t a mage then, so – oh, _shit_.”

"We know Corypheus can influence the Wardens' minds," Ciri said. "Maybe it's something similar. Or he can possess people.” That was an awful thought.

Malika made a face and nudged Rainier with her elbow. “Sure picked a great time to join the Wardens, didn’t I, handsome?”

“You found a magical expert, alright,” Varric said. “A darkspawn magister from ancient times has to know all sorts of things about magic and the Blight.”

Bianca paled and braced herself against the wall. “But he seemed so normal.”

“Yeah, we didn’t think anything was off with him when he left the prison, either,” Varric consoled her.

She shook her head. “I didn’t think anything of it until you wrote to tell me you’d found red lyrium in Haven and the Hinterlands. I came here as soon as I could get free of my obligations, and found, well, all of this. Then I went to you.”

Ciri looked away from Bianca and stared at the corpses, the red lyrium growth, the expressions on her companions’ faces. Varric seemed angry but underlying that was hurt. Dorian didn’t seem nearly as angry as Varric – in fact, he seemed like he had more questions for Bianca about her discovery. Malika and Rainier, on the other hand…

She’d never seen Malika look so serious, not even when Rainier had come clean to her in the War Room. Becoming a Grey Warden hadn’t just changed Rainier, it seemed. And Rainier looked as grim as Stroud could get at times.

She frowned and turned back to Bianca. “You tried to do the right thing by going to a Grey Warden. Either you have the rottenest luck in the world, or Corypheus made certain you’d run across him first. But whichever it is, keeping quiet about it for so long led to Blighted lyrium formations cropping up across half of Thedas.”

“That’s why I came to Varric,” Bianca said. “I know I screwed up, but we cut off their supply, didn’t we? This is as right as we can make it!”

Varric opened his mouth to retort, and Rainier cut him off. “Maker’s balls it’s not. There’s a fucking lyrium-fueled Blight running loose across Thedas, and the order doesn’t know anything about it. You want to make things right? Come back to Soldier’s Peak with us and share your research. The Wardens need to know what we’re facing if we’re going to have any hope of dealing with it.”

“I’m supposed to be back in the Free Marches in three weeks,” Bianca protested.

Malika glared at her. “Was this about actually fixing things, or was it about soothing your conscience? Run back home if it’s that. But we’ll know. And we’ll remember.”

Bianca looked like she was going to protest further, then the wind went out of her sails, and her gaze followed the same path Ciri’s had, lingering on the corpses and the jutting spike of lyrium. “I’ll write to Bogdan,” she said quietly. “Tell him the Ferelden Grey Wardens asked me to consult on a project. However long you need, you have my help. I do want to set things right.”

“Good to hear,” Rainier said with a firm nod.

Perhaps Ciri had been too hasty comparing Bianca to the sorceresses on the Continent. Far too few of them ever acknowledged or learned from their mistakes, after all.

“We should burn the bodies and see to the rest of the thaig,” Ciri told Dorian.

Dorian grimaced. “That’s probably unwise. There’s a chance the flames might catch the red lyrium, and we don’t want to breathe that in.”

“Aye,” Rainier agreed. “The last thing we need is for you to come down with Blight sickness – especially whatever twisted version the red lyrium carries. We’ve seen what it does to the Templars. The Inquisition can’t afford to lose you to it.”

Ciri sighed. She understood, but she didn’t have to like it. “The darkspawn, then?”

“The work never ends,” Malika said, clapping her on the back as she headed back to the doorway. “Come on, Your Handiness. With luck, we’ll be out of here by supper.”

“Kid,” Varric said wryly, “when are we ever that lucky?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy one-year anniversary to "Herald," and to my return to writing! Whether you've just found this fic today or you've been here from the start, I appreciate you as a reader so much. You're great.


	53. Dangers and Threats

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A War Council meeting reveals secrets, threats, and betrayals, and Ciri has to share a part of her past she's kept hidden.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> beta-read by brightspot149. Thank you!

Ciri made her way to the War Room alone, freshly bathed and wearing clothes that didn’t stink of several weeks’ worth of travel. Someone, likely Josephine or Owain, had left a stack of parchment with the meeting’s agenda on her desk for her to look over, and she had it tucked beneath her arm in a tight roll. One item had made her both shake her head and wince, knowing the conversation to come would be a difficult one. It simply read, in a large, sharp hand:  _ “BLIGHTED LYRIUM. EXPLAIN.” _

She pushed open the door to the War Room and found that once again, she was the last to arrive. To her relief, Owain, Raúl, and Cullen looked largely recovered from their ordeal with the lyrium addiction cure, and Owain met her smile with one of his own. The faint, ever-present lines of tiredness and tension that had marked his face since the day they’d met were nowhere to be seen.

She was looking forward to this evening. They had another ‘picnic dinner’ planned for her quarters, just the two of them, with sparring practice afterward. But first, they needed to get through the stack of parchment she carried. 

“Good afternoon, everyone,” she said as she set her roll of parchment down on the map. “Did all the agenda items make it into my hands, or are there other things I need to know about?”

Leliana spoke up. “My agent came back from the north. The report is ready for you whenever you want to hear it.”

“And there’s a complication back home I need to tell you about,” Triss said with a careful glance at Chancellor Roderick.

“Then we’ll get the Chantry’s business taken care of first, shall we?” Chancellor Roderick said, nodding politely back at her.

“I saw that Revered Mother Kordula had been recalled to Val Royeaux while I was in the Hinterlands,” Ciri said. “Is there more to it than that?”

“Grand Cleric Oudine is hoping she might explain what happened with the apostate, Anders, to her satisfaction. Though seeing as the details of how he was freed from the demon have been kept secret, it’s unlikely.” Chancellor Roderick turned his attention to the key-shaped marker sitting over Val Royeaux, his strong brows furrowed as if he was trying to see into the Grand Cathedral from where he stood.

“Does it matter?” Ciri asked him. “Justice is back in the Fade, and Anders is his own man again. Grand Enchanter Fiona vouches that no blood magic was used. That should be good enough.”

“It will have to do,” Chancellor Roderick said heavily. He looked back up from the map, his expression lightening slightly. “On the bright side, your pardon of Anders and the news that the demon Justice was the driving force behind the attack on Kirkwall’s chantry has changed perceptions of the apostate among a key set. Certain extreme Libertarian mages saw him as a folk hero of sorts. This portrayal of him as a victim has made him lose some of his luster.”

Ciri liked that not at all. “But he was a hero – he is a hero,” she corrected herself. “A Grey Warden, for one, and for years he healed Kirkwall’s poor without expectation of pay. He had incredible willpower not to turn into one of those monstrous abominations I’ve read about, to maintain his sense of self and his own mind. He was a victim, yes, but that doesn’t make him any less brave or caring. One doesn’t negate the other.”

Chancellor Roderick looked dubious. “An interesting suggestion, Lady Ciri, and one more generous than Anders merits, perhaps.”

Cullen dropped his gaze to the map and cleared his throat. He no longer looked quite so tired or ill, and the waxy complexion he’d had was long gone, but he seemed as stressed as ever. If Ciri had to guess, the confrontation he’d had with Hawke and Anders weeks ago was still on his mind.

“The only one who’s reacted worse than the Chantry is Prince Sebastian of Starkhaven,” Cullen said. “We received word from Kirkwall’s interim viscount Bran Cavin and Guard-Captain Aveline Vallen asking for help repelling Starkhaven’s forces.”

“He’s invading Kirkwall?” Ciri asked in disbelief. “That’s ridiculous! Whatever for?”

“It would seem that with Anders out of reach, bringing Kirkwall to heel with annexation is the next best thing in his mind,” Leliana said. She shook her head. "I have to wonder if he got the idea from me. I met him once when Justinia was considering drastic action against Kirkwall. Perhaps it planted the seeds."

“You mustn’t blame yourself, even if he did get the idea from you,” Ciri told her. “You can’t control what other people do.”

Leliana looked at her for a long moment, then nodded, her eyes warming.

“How would you like to handle this request for aid?” Josephine asked.

“Our soldiers have been well-rested since Adamant. We’ll send as many as are needed. Healers, food, and medical supplies as well,” Ciri said. “And write Prince Sebastian a firm reprimand, please. Make sure to include that this is neither how a peacekeeper nor a champion of the just behaves.”

Josephine pressed her lips together to hide a smile. “I’ll see to it.”

“And what of the Chantry – the _other_ Chantry?” Ciri clarified. “Is Agnesot content with her new title, or has she decided to act?”

“We’ve all been excommunicated.” Chancellor Roderick sounded torn between annoyance and amusement. “The list of who she and her fellow excommunicants didn’t ‘excommunicate’ in return may in fact be shorter than the one of those who escaped her ire.”

“All of us, the remaining grand clerics, and every noble and head of state allied with the Inquisition are now banned from services in the cities and towns they hold,” Leliana said. “Moreover, a bounty has been put on your head, Inquisitor. Fifteen thousand royals. Where Agnesot got that sort of gold, I don’t know, but you can trust I’m looking into it.”

“Please be careful out there,” Owain said quietly. “It’s enough money to tempt a great many people.”

“I’ll watch my back,” she promised. “And you know I never go anywhere alone, anyhow.”

He nodded in acknowledgment.

“I believe that’s the last of the Chantry’s business,” Cullen said.

“And that’s my cue to take my leave,” Chancellor Roderick said, giving Ciri a shallow bow. “Inquisitor.”

“Thank you, Chancellor,” Ciri said. “We’ll see you again at the next meeting.”

She waited until the door had closed behind him and turned to Triss. “What’s this ‘complication’ back home?”

Triss shook her head. “It’s going to ruin the meeting if I tell you now. It can wait until the end.”

Ciri’s heart skipped a beat. “Are Geralt and Lady Yennefer –”

“They’re fine,” Triss reassured her. “The Witchers are fine. The school is fine.”

Ciri took a deep breath and tried to set her misgivings aside. There were only so many other things it could possibly be, but if Triss insisted on waiting, she wouldn’t press her. “The Exalted Plains situation, then. I understand we’ve been asked to intervene?”

“Asked to investigate,” Owain amended. “The Civil War has been raging across Dirthavaren – the Exalted Plains – for over a year now. But these last few months, the front has been quiet. Unnaturally so.”

“On both sides,” Raúl added. “The scouts have seen corpses walking, and the occasional demon, but the armies, what’s left of them, at least, have retreated to their camps to lick their wounds for now.”

“And the request comes not from a general, nor from the empress or grand duke, but from Duke Cyril de Montfort,” Ciri said as she glanced down at her stack of parchment.

The empress’ second cousin was rapidly becoming a valuable ally. Not only had he secured them the use of Griffon Wing Keep, but he and Duke Bastien’s son had also arranged for trebuchets to aid them in the siege of Adamant Fortress. If this request came from him, she could hardly turn it down.

“The duke is likely asking out of concern for the empress’ war efforts,” Josephine said. “His father, the late Duke Prosper, was Empress Celene’s greatest supporter, and Duke Cyril is similarly close to his cousin.”

“What does he think of the empress’ slaughter of the elves of Halamshiral?” Ciri asked. “What are his views of Orlais’ elves in general?”

“Both are very good questions,” Leliana said. “I’ll look into it for you.”

Cullen redirected the conversation back to the war front. “If we resolve whatever is causing the dead to rise in the Exalted Plains, that may be our inroad to an invitation to the peace talks at the Winter Palace.”

“Is it ‘Dirthavaren’ or ‘Exalted Plains’?” Ciri asked.

“Dirthavaren,” Owain said firmly, “though you won’t hear many humans call it that. They renamed it the Exalted Plains after their victory over the elves during the second Exalted March.”

“Dirthavaren,” Ciri said, trying to puzzle it out. “ _Dirth_ means secrets or knowledge, but can also be an imperative to speak…”

“It means ‘the Promise,’” Owain said. He smiled. “As in the land Andraste promised Shartan and his people. Max would kill me if I didn’t know that much about his area of study.”

Josephine made a note on her clipboard, and Ciri thought she saw something gleam at her wrist. “I’ll ask Maxwell for his analysis of the Exalted – of _Dirthavaren_ when the meeting concludes. Forgive me for the oversight.”

“Scout Mahanon and Mihris were sent ahead on the report of a Dalish clan in the area,” Leliana continued at Ciri’s nod. “We felt they might act as ambassadors to smooth any potential tension or conflict that could arise.”

That didn’t sound right. “I thought Mihris was going to join Clan Lavellan in the Free Marches.”

“She was,” Leliana said. “But she decided to stay and keep Mahanon company. You can ask her for her reasons when you see her in Dirthavaren.”

“Alright,” Ciri said. “We’ll leave for Dirthavaren tomorrow. What’s next?” She flipped through the pages and paused on the short, emphatic demand for an explanation. “Ah…the blighted lyrium.”

“I had hoped it was just a joke in poor taste, but I know you wouldn’t be that cruel,” Leliana said. “Your letter back from the Hinterlands was lacking in detail. Do you have anything else to add?”

“Not much, to be honest,” Ciri told them. “Bianca Davri’s discovery of lyrium’s properties matches Triss’ observations. She said that the Blight can’t infect minerals, so it must be alive to some degree.”

“Then everywhere those red lyrium formations are found, Blight is leaching into the ground,” Triss said gravely. “Poisoning the soil, the plant life, even the burrowing animals and bugs. This could devastate your world.”

“There are places that are still barren wastelands from the first Blight,” Josephine said. “I don’t want to think what adding lyrium into the mix will do.”

“Nothing good,” Raúl opined. He exchanged unsettled looks with Owain and Cullen. “Did Davri have any thoughts on what this means for the red Templars? Normal Blight sickness turns the infected into ghouls after some time. But the way the red lyrium has taken our former brothers and sisters is the stuff of nightmares.”

“She didn’t say,” Ciri said, “but I imagine that’s something they’ll look into as well.”

Cullen made a fist atop the table, frowning deeply. “There’s no cure for the Blight.”

“There wasn’t a cure for lyrium addiction a few months ago,” Triss countered. But she too frowned. “You’re right, though. The Blight and the lyrium seem to complicate each other, amplifying their negative effects. Finding a solution will be exponentially more difficult, if it can be done at all.”

“Should we recall the Orlesian Grey Wardens?” Owain asked. “They’re currently in pursuit of Marquise Bouffon in the Gamordan Peaks. We’d like to bring her to justice for the illegal mining she was doing that broke into a darkspawn tunnel, but this red lyrium Blight seems more important.”

“Send word to whoever is currently in charge and tell them to have a few of their cleverer Wardens go to Soldier’s Peak to be part of the investigation into potential solutions,” Ciri said after a second or two of thinking. “The rest can continue their work for now. And warn them about Bianca’s encounter with Warden Larius – that was most likely Corypheus possessing the Warden. They’ll need to be vigilant.”

“We’ll send word at once,” Josephine said.

Ciri turned back to her stack of parchment. “Leliana, what progress have you made with Servis?”

“It’s early stages yet, but his information so far has been accurate and helpful,” Leliana said. “My agents have managed to disrupt a Venatori smuggling ring in the Lake Celestine region and uncover a double agent who wormed her way into Duke Tythas Pentaghast’s confidences in Hunter Fell. He also has some suggestions on how to entice one of Corypheus’ most devoted supporters away from his side. I have a full report waiting for you.”

“I had my doubts about him,” Ciri admitted. “I’m glad I was wrong.”

“Your instincts have led you right so far,” Leliana said. “Magister Tilani hasn’t had any success trying to purchase Servis’ grandparents from Magister Therastes. I have a pair of agents I could send to deal with the situation more directly.”

Ciri hesitated. “Helping them escape, or…”

“Whatever seems best,” Leliana said steadily. “It won’t be traced back to us.”

“I made him a promise,” Ciri said. Her stomach clenched at the thought, but she met Leliana’s eyes squarely. “Send them.”

Leliana nodded. “I’ll make sure to mention that violence should be a last resort,” she offered.

“Thank you,” Ciri said quietly. “Now. You said you had word from your agent who went north?”

Leliana looked sympathetic. “Solas’ ‘small village to the north’ is a ruin, Inquisitor. It has been uninhabited for centuries. Wherever he comes from, it isn’t there.”

Somehow, Ciri had known that was coming. And yet, the confirmation surprised her all the same. “Well.” She looked down at the map, suddenly feeling very tired.

“Well,” she said again.

“Hm.” Leliana let out a faint, stifled laugh, and Ciri looked back up at her. “It does seem to be going around, doesn’t it?”

Despite herself, Ciri smiled ruefully. First Rainier, now Solas. And she, Triss, and Olgierd had lied to the advisors for a few months, and to their friends for even longer. “You might be right.”

“Why did you even suspect him of falsehood in the first place?” Cullen asked.

“This is…hard to explain.”

Haltingly, carefully, she began to describe her half-remembered dreams and the shadowy figure that spoke to her in them. Curious expressions turned serious, and Cullen dropped his hand to his sword as she mentioned the figure’s dire warnings of a danger near her, a _harellan_ who would ‘doom the Fade and the physical world in his quest for atonement.’

“But the figure in my dreams said the winds were shifting,” Ciri added. “They said he may yet have a change of heart.”

“Is that enough?” Leliana asked. “Can we count on a potential change of heart when the danger he presents is so clear?”

“More than that, can we believe this figure in your dreams?” Cullen asked. “Spirits aren’t all like Cole and Adventure, Inquisitor. Your experience in the Nightmare’s realm is proof enough.”

“I don’t believe I’m dreaming of a spirit,” Ciri told them. “That much I remember. They said they were…what was it? A political prisoner. ‘Meant to be forgotten.’”

“Then you have a Dreamer intruding on your sleep, and you’re stuck in the middle of some larger conspiracy we’re only seeing the edges of,” Leliana concluded. “My guess would be someone from Tevinter working against Corypheus and the Venatori, but I cannot imagine any scenario in which Solas would ally himself with a darkspawn magister who wishes to bring back slave-owning Tevinter’s glory days.”

“Nor can I,” Ciri said. She braced her hands on the edge of the table and stared down at the map, unsettled and vaguely guilty. “He calls me his kin. I asked him if he had recent Elvhen ancestry, the way people believe I do, and he said he did. He believes we’re family of a sort. He said that meeting me brought him great joy. He listened to me when I told him what he said in the future, about a world without the Veil being an abomination. I think I can reach him. He hasn’t done anything wrong yet, not truly. We can’t condemn him for nebulous plans I learned about in the Fade.”

“No,” Owain agreed. “He hasn’t acted on anything yet, at least so far as we know. If you can resolve it peacefully, that would be ideal. We may find out if he’s acting alone, or if there is some sort of conspiracy at play. But Ciri.”

She looked up to see him watching her with serious, kind eyes. “Yes?”

“There’s no way you’ll be able to keep the truth of your origins from him forever. What will you do if he reacts poorly?”

Ciri shook her head. “He told me not to tell him when I saw him in the future,” she said softly. “I don’t… He’s my friend. My tutor. I don’t want to hurt him.”

“And if he hurts you?” Owain asked, just as softly.

“I’ll defend myself. But I won’t strike first. Not against Solas.”

Leliana spoke up after a moment of silence. “Then we have a plan. We watch him covertly, with no change to our behavior to arouse suspicion. Lady Ciri will take the lead in attempting to sway him from his course of action. If that seems futile, we’ll reconvene and consider another approach.”

“You could change your behavior,” Ciri suggested. “Involve him in conversations, invite him to play chess, ask him about his art. That sort of thing. Sera jokes that he has his head ‘stuffed up a thousand years ago,’ and honestly, she’s not wrong. He spends so much time thinking about the Fade, and the past, that he isn’t invested in the present. Perhaps if we give him reasons to care –”

“This is a great deal of effort for one liar,” Raúl pointed out. “Particularly a liar with an interest in destroying Thedas.”

“I know.”

“This seems dangerous,” Cullen warned her. “I trust that you know what you’re doing, but if Solas’ plans truly extend to tearing down the Veil, we may be better served by acting to stop him rather than trying to change his mind.”

“I know,” Ciri repeated. “But I have to try.”

Not everything about Solas’ friendship could be a lie. She had to trust that the man who taught her magic and Elven, who told her stories of Thedas’ history and of spirits, who painted such beautiful art in the rotunda, would see reason in the end. He’d stayed to help in the future, after all, and he’d hated the sight of a world where the Veil no longer existed. He couldn’t be a bad person, even if his plans did worry her.

“What’s next?” she asked. “Josephine?”

“There’s nothing that needs your immediate attention,” Josephine told her. “I’ve sent out requests to Rene de Genellen, the parfumier, and to the tailor Colet le Mire and his cobbler partner, Lorette Potin. They should arrive before you return from Dirthavaren. Messengers have been dispatched to cloth and leather merchants detailing our needs, so we should see those deliveries in the next few weeks.”

“I’ll leave that to you, then,” Ciri said. “Nothing else?” No one spoke up, so she turned to Triss. “What’s the complication, if my parents, the school, and the other Witchers are fine?”

“Olgierd and I were seen in Novigrad,” Triss said reluctantly. “I don’t know by whom, but they tipped off Philippa, and she showed up at the bank. She insinuated that she knew Geralt and Yenna were lying about what really happened to you after the battle against the Wild Hunt. And she –”

“And she’s _Emhyr’s advisor_!” Ciri interrupted. “Triss!”

“I told Margarita to warn Geralt and Yenna,” Triss said. “Ciri, even if she does suspect, she can’t find you while you’re here. And what can you even do with the Veil trapping you in Thedas?”

Ciri crossed her arms tightly. “I could do _something_!”

Her mind raced as she revisited every village, every inn, that she’d stopped by on the Path. Had she let her hood slip too often? Had someone spoken of the odd female Witcher to the wrong person? Were Emhyr’s spies still listening for news of her?

“Why would this Philippa not know what happened to you after your battle?” Raúl asked. “Am I understanding you correctly? You faked your death?”

“I did,” Ciri said shortly.

“Why?” Leliana asked. “And you say that Philippa is…Emhyr’s?...advisor? Which is the greater threat to you and your family?”

“Emhyr.” Ciri's voice came out flat and hard.

“Don’t underestimate the danger Philippa presents,” Triss cautioned her. “She’s centuries old, has friends and contacts in every corner of every kingdom. When she was head of the Lodge of Sorceresses, she shaped the Northern kingdoms from behind the scenes, and the last time she had a king’s ear –”

“The last time Miss Owl had a king’s ear, she turned Radovid the Stern into Radovid the Mad, lost her eyes, and brought witch hunters down on every magic user in half the Northern kingdoms,” Ciri interrupted. “She doesn’t make mistakes on a manageable scale, and her ambitions are greater than her ability to achieve them. No, the danger is in what she might say to Emhyr, and if he believes her.”

“Tell us about Emhyr,” Cullen prompted her.

"He sent men after me for years. His army conquered my grandparents' kingdom – he's responsible for their deaths. He's a brutal, power-hungry tyrant, and the _only_ thing that granted me reprieve was that he had a glimmer of conscience when he finally got me in his grasp – not that it lasted, since he started searching for me again years later. If Philippa decides it serves her interests to share her suspicions with him, I’ll never be safe from him again.”

The silence that followed her words was pregnant. Then, rather delicately, Josephine spoke up.

“Your _grandparents’_ kingdom?”

_ Damn it all. _

Ciri looked around the room. Unlike the last time she’d been in this position, with Triss and Olgierd, the advisors looked concerned and worried, not skeptical or angry. Owain nodded to her in gentle encouragement. She took a deep breath and prepared to reveal what she’d purposely left unsaid before.

“Queen Calanthe of Cintra was my grandmother. She and her husband, King Eist Tuirseach, raised me after my mother, Princess Pavetta, died at sea when I was very young. Nilfgaard’s army conquered the kingdom when I was almost twelve, and I escaped the slaughter and found refuge with a peasant family. Geralt discovered me there some months later and brought me back to Kaer Morhen with him to begin my training as a Witcher.”

“Oh, Ciri,” Josephine breathed. She set her clipboard down and came around the table to lay a soft hand on her shoulder. “Your poor grandparents. Your childhood. To have lost so much…”

Ciri loosened her tight grip on her forearms and briefly rested her hand on Josephine’s. “I don’t have any claim on Cintra anymore. I’m just a Witcher now. It’s all I want, truly.”

“You must still have some claim to the kingdom, or this King Emhyr wouldn’t pursue you so doggedly,” Raúl said. “Does he need you to give him legitimacy there?”

Ciri scoffed. “Emperor Emhyr married a lookalike and passed her off as me. No. He –” The words caught in her throat, and she reached for Josephine’s hand again. “He’s my birth father.”

Cullen looked taken aback. “Your father invaded your kingdom?”

“ _Birth_ father,” Ciri stressed. “It’s… He married my mother under a false name. No one knew he was the rightful heir to Nilfgaard’s throne. We thought he was lost at sea with my birth mother. We mourned him! Meanwhile, some man named Emhyr overthrew the Usurper in Nilfgaard and began conquering neighboring kingdoms. A few years later, he turned his eyes on Cintra. No love or mercy for his parents-in-law or daughter, or the kingdom that called him Prince Duny.”

“Why does he want you so badly, then?” Leliana asked. “Are you his heir?” Her sharp eyes held concern. “If he married the imposter…that doesn’t speak well of his intentions.”

“No,” Ciri said bitterly. “It doesn’t.”

She hadn’t said this part to Owain. She wasn’t sure if Triss even knew all of it. But she’d pieced part of it together on her own, and Geralt and Yennefer had filled in the rest.

“The trouble with Elder Blood,” she began, “is that everyone seems to have an unhealthy obsession with making and controlling the next generation, and me by extension. The Aen Elle coerced me into agreeing to a pregnancy to ‘return’ Lara Dorren’s power to them after the humans ‘stole’ it. The Lodge of Sorceresses decided I was to become King Tankred’s mistress and have a magical child they could rule the Northern kingdoms through. A sorcerer wanted to force a pregnancy on me just so he could use the placenta to make himself more powerful. And Emhyr –”

She paused. "Emhyr chased me with soldiers, spies, and mercenaries. He created a false Cirilla of Cintra out of nowhere and married her. And when he finally caught up with us after a grueling battle, he didn't let on that he was my father. He just said he was taking me away to Nilfgaard and leaving Geralt and Yennefer to kill themselves ‘honorably.’ He let me go when he saw how devastated I was, but his vow to leave me in peace didn’t last more than a few years. I _had_ to fake my death after the battle with the Wild Hunt. I knew he was my father by then.

“I won’t…I can’t…I _refuse_ to allow my body to be used as a vessel for anyone’s ambitions! Avallac’h didn’t succeed. Philippa didn’t succeed. Vilgefortz failed utterly. If my tyrannical, incestuous _bastard_ of a birth father lays a finger on me or my parents again, I’ll make him regret ever contemplating doing it!”

She caught her breath as her voice rose to a near-shout, her heart pounding in remembered anger and terror. Josephine pulled her into a tight, comforting hug, and Owain came around from the other side of the table to offer her a warm embrace when Josephine released her. Triss looked momentarily stricken before she pulled herself together to give Ciri a nod of support and a regretful smile.

“They can’t find you here,” Owain said firmly. “If you’re nowhere to be found on the Continent, they may dismiss the rumors that you’re alive as just that. Rumors. It will give them time to die down before you go back.”

Ciri met his dark eyes and nodded slightly. “I hope you’re right.”

“Even so, precautions must be taken,” Leliana said. “You turned me down before, but this time I must insist. We need extra guards on that portal, Inquisitor, in case people come through looking for you. My agents are discreet and trustworthy.”

Ciri hesitated, and Leliana let her steely mask drop just a little.

“Please,” she said softly. “Let us protect you, as you have protected Thedas.”

Her throat grew tight at the sincerity and honest care in Leliana’s voice, and she nodded, just once. “Owain, you should write to your parents and let them know we’re sending Inquisition agents their way.”

“I’ll take care of it first thing tomorrow.”

Another moment of silence fell. Raúl broke it with a short laugh.

“What?” Cullen asked him.

“All those rumors that Lady Ciri was born on the wrong side of the royal bed,” he explained. “The Valmont one almost sunk us in Orlais. But here she is, an actual princess. If certain people had any idea, they’d be feasting on crow.”

Josephine laughed softly. "The thought of those who look down on you learning the truth does feel somewhat satisfying, even if it can't ever happen." She looked at Ciri with a new understanding in her eyes. "I had wondered for a time how the daughter of a knight and a mage could take to leading a large organization so easily. But you were raised for something like this, weren’t you?”

“I’m just a Witcher,” Ciri said with a shake of her head. “Whatever I might have been before Cintra was conquered, I’m not anymore. And even then, the Law of Surprise tied me to Geralt. By circumstance, by destiny, by choice, I’m a Witcher, not a princess.”

“So who are you, then?” Cullen asked. “You told us back in Haven that your family name was Morhen, but a few minutes ago you spoke of a Kaer Morhen. I understand that you were just trying to stay safe then, but surely you can tell us your real name now, and whatever titles you hold.”

_ Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon. The Lion Cub of Cintra. The Lady of Worlds. The Lady of Time and Space. ‘The Hand of the Maker.’ _

“Cirilla of Vengerberg,” Ciri said at last. “Daughter of Yennefer of Vengerberg and Geralt of Rivia, and a Witcher of the School of the Wolf.” She paused and added, “And, I suppose, your Inquisitor.”

* * *

Ciri slid to the side, the sheets pooling around her waist. Beneath her cheek, Owain’s chest was damp with sweat. His arm came around her as she caught her breath, and he chuckled quietly.

“Hm?”

“When we said we’d make time for sparring practice, somehow I’d pictured using a different sword –”

His chuckles turned into outright laughter as she yanked the pillow out from under his head and batted him with it. She laughed too after a moment and dropped the pillow to fall back across his chest.

She smiled against his skin, her heart full of appreciation. She’d been a moody wreck after the meeting, worried and tense. Owain hadn’t let her cloister herself away to fret, though, and put together their picnic dinner himself. Gentle kisses turned to touches turned to pleasure, and now her fear and anger felt like a distant thing, days or weeks removed instead of mere hours.

She pressed a kiss to the skin beneath her lips and rolled away. “You’re ridiculous.”

“You bring it out in me,” he said, not for the first time.

He brushed a stray strand of hair away from her face and leaned in to kiss her. She responded with tired enthusiasm, reaching up to run her fingers through the soft, short hair at the back of his skull.

“Thirsty?” he asked as he pulled away.

“A bit.”

He sat up and swung his long legs over the edge of the bed and strode nude to her desk, where the pitcher of perry and goblets from their picnic dinner still sat. Ciri sat up as well to get a better view, and she watched the muscles in his back and shoulders shift as he lifted the pitcher and poured them both a drink. He glanced over his shoulder at her and grinned.

“Enjoying the view?”

“Oh, go on…flex a little.”

He threw back his head and laughed, but obliged, lifting an arm and flexing his bicep. “Should I feel objectified?”

“Appreciated.”

He carried the goblets back to the bed and passed one over before sinking beside her with the other. Ciri rested against him as she sipped at the sweet, slightly astringent alcoholic pear cider. His free arm came around her side, and his hand slipped into her hair to idly play with it.

“How do you feel?” she asked him, her eyes on his face. “You look much better now.”

He smiled and took a swallow of his perry. “Healthy. Younger, even. I’d felt like I was recovering from the lyrium addiction fairly well, but I hadn’t realized how much of it was still in my body until I took the potion. There’s no soreness anymore, no tiredness. My head hasn’t hurt in weeks. I feel lighter if that’s possible.”

“I’m glad,” she said softly.

“They saved us, you know.” He gently combed through her loose hair, and he took a moment to carefully untangle a knot as it caught his fingers on the next pass. “Evie, Triss, and Clemence. We have our lives back thanks to their efforts.”

“What will you do now?”

“I’m not sure,” he said. “Evie has some decisions to make. The University of Starkhaven wants her as a lecturer for their medical department. And Teyrn Fergus Cousland wrote with an offer, asking her to stand as guardian to the young Franderel girl until she’s of age to rule West Hill.”

“Why Evelyn?” Ciri asked. “Not that she isn’t a good choice, but she isn’t even Ferelden.”

“Our family is a close trading partner to the Couslands, and as a noble, a member of the Inquisition, and someone who’s recently created a potion that could be the saving grace of countless former Templars across Thedas, my sister is exactly the sort of person Teyrn Cousland would look for as a good influence on a growing girl, mage or not,” Owain said. “On top of that, she doesn’t have a partner or child that she’d have to put first.”

“Mm. And Maxwell?”

“Max has been considering his options.” Owain polished off his perry and set his goblet down beside the bed. “On the one hand, he could come back to Ostwick and help Liam and Father manage the family fortune, or return to the university to have a career in academia. On the other, if Dorian goes back to Tevinter, he may just decide to follow.”

“I hadn’t realized they were so serious.”

“I think it took him by surprise as well.”

“But you,” Ciri pressed gently, returning to the original topic. She sat up to face him and looked into his dark blue eyes curiously. “You don’t have any thoughts on your future?”

“I have a few.” He pulled her back down against his chest, taking care not to spill her drink. “I’d like to see the Continent. Grandmother Iori told us stories, but that’s all they could ever be with the portal dormant for so long. Now, though. I might see Tir Tochair, or Novigrad, or Toussaint. Her stories are over three hundred years out of date, but still, I’d like to try and see what matches.”

“You’d leave Thedas?” Ciri asked.

His chest hitched with laughter beneath her. “There’s a portal in my family’s garden. Leaving Thedas doesn’t have to mean saying goodbye forever.”

“Would you like company on your tour of the Continent?” she asked, her throat tight with relief as a complicated flood of emotions rose in her chest.

“I can’t imagine anything better.” His fingers slowly started to draw abstract patterns down her bare arm, and she sighed and cuddled in closer. “Tell me something.”

“Anything.”

“What’s the Path like? The Witcher’s Path?”

Ciri twisted to look up at him. “Dangerous,” she said at once. “Lonely. The peasants are suspicious, superstitious, and often don’t wish to pay. The monsters are deadly – faster, stronger, and bigger than a human. The pay sometimes barely covers enough to feed my mare and me, let alone supplies to care for my tack and swords, or a bed at an inn. I can go weeks without seeing a friendly face.”

“You make it sound miserable,” he said. “But it can’t be all bad.”

“No,” she admitted. “There's satisfaction in helping people. My last contract was for ridding a village of a grave hag. She’d been preying on the children at night. They had no idea what was stealing their sons and daughters. But I investigated their rooms and the windows outside, tracked her to the cemetery and the crypt she’d turned into a lair, and put an end to it. They’ll be safe now – _I_ did that.

“And sometimes it’s the monsters I help. There was a troll whose cave was too close to a village that was expanding into a new settlement. Villagers were logging near the cave entrance and the troll was throwing rocks at them to keep them away. I talked the troll into finding a new cave…after I won a game of riddles against him.” She laughed quietly and finished off her perry. “I didn’t get paid for that job, as you might imagine, but the troll gave me a very shiny stone.”

“Nice of him.” Owain took her empty goblet and placed it on the floor beside his. “You can’t be on the Path all the time.”

She shook her head. “I go back to Corvo Bianco frequently. Geralt and Yennefer keep a room for me there, and there’s always a place at the table for me. Geralt’s all but retired from Witchering, though he still takes local contracts in Toussaint. I suppose I’ve taken up the mantle.”

“I’d like to meet them someday.”

“I hope I get to introduce you.” Ciri was certain Geralt and Yennefer would like him. She hoped they’d like him, at least.

“We should do some actual sparring,” she said, changing the subject. “Now that you’re in better shape, we ought to work on your speed and evasion. The way that dragon knocked you down never should have happened.”

“Agreed,” he said firmly.

“And maybe we’ll make some adjustments to your sword work –”

His lips twitched. “I was under the impression you enjoyed my sword work.”

He burst into laughter again as the discarded pillow came down on his head. Ciri giggled and squirmed away from the hands that searched out her ribs.

“Ahahaha – truce! Truce!”

She collapsed back down across his chest, still giggling.

So much had been brought to light during their meeting: betrayal, secrets, danger, even a bounty on her head. The threat of Emhyr hadn’t felt so present for years.

But here in this moment, she was happy. And that would do for now.


	54. Freemen and Chevaliers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ciri arrives in Dirthavaren with her companions to deal with the undead. Everyone seems to have an opinion on the situation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> beta-read by brightspot149. Thank you!

Ciri spotted gray hair and tattoos as she rode into the forward camp in Dirthavaren. “Mihris,” she said warmly, swinging down from Zephyr’s back. “I hope it isn’t too much trouble being back here.”

Mihris looked beyond the borders of the camp, to the distant ramparts where the dead walked. Her voice was soft and pained. “I never thought I’d see it like this.”

“These shems spoil everything they touch,” Mahanon said with a scowl. He nodded to Ciri with surprising politeness and took Zephyr’s reins. “Inquisitor.”

“Scout Mahanon.”

“You saved my clan.” He hesitated, then nodded again, his face firm. “Whatever you are, you have Clan Lavellan’s respect.”

“I’ll do my best to be worthy of it.”

Olgierd, Solas, Sera, and Dorian dismounted as well, and a few more scouts came to take their horses’ reins. Ciri waited until Mahanon came back from the picket line and beckoned him and Mihris over.

“What can you tell me about what we’ll be dealing with here?” she asked. “The advisors told me some of it, and Maxwell Trevelyan prepared an assessment of the area for me to read, but you’ve been here a while.”

“That’s the –” Mahanon made a face and swallowed whatever he’d been about to say. “The noble with the elf in his family tree, right? Trevelyans. They were the first to reach out to trade with Wycome after the dust settled and our keeper was left in charge. They’re alright for…humans. I suppose.”

Sera scoffed but didn’t interject.

Ciri shook her head at her and turned back to the two Dalish elves. “What can you tell us about the Dalish clan in the area?”

“Clan Rasyluvun,” Mihris said. “They come through here every spring. The last time I saw them it didn’t go well for me, but it’s better now that I belong to a clan again. Mahanon and I have been taking care of things for them. Building up goodwill toward your Inquisition.”

“We cleared demons from Var Bellanaris, brought Halan’ghilan back to the camp, helped restock their supplies,” Mahanon listed. He grimaced. “Emalien said her brother Valorin went missing a few days ago. She thinks he’s trying to prove he deserves to be Keeper Hawen’s First over Taven. We haven’t found him yet.”

“We’ll keep an eye out,” Ciri said. “Mihris, I thought you were going to join Clan Lavellan in the Free Marches. What changed?”

Mihris shrugged. “First there was all the trouble in Wycome. Then, after, I couldn’t leave Mahanon behind. Our clan is in your debt. We’ll repay that.” She looked away for a second, then back at Ciri, her pale green eyes intent. “And – and I wish to be there, should you see vengeance done.”

“I’ll do my best,” Ciri promised her. “There’s still been no word in the advisor meetings about Imshael or Michel de Chevin, but I haven’t forgotten.”

“Your word is good enough for me.”

Solas leaned over Ciri’s shoulder to address Mihris and Mahanon. His new robes from Dagna looked good on him, a fine mail shirt over a long-sleeved gray tunic and beneath a long, sleeveless green vest. He wore proper armor now, as well, exquisitely decorated gauntlets and greaves made of a silvery metal, and his new staff shone faintly red beneath the clear blue sky. “Do you have any idea what is behind the dead rising?”

Mihris looked at him as if he were slow. “A mage. Spirits would possess only a fraction of the corpses if magic weren’t involved.”

“And it has to be someone who wants to cause the most chaos and destruction to both sides of the war,” Ciri surmised. “Maxwell’s assessment mentioned deserters from Celene and Gaspard’s armies. They call themselves Freemen of the Dales, anti-monarchists who wish to claim Dirthavaren for themselves.”

Approval glinted in Mahanon’s eyes at her use of the Elven name, but he still shook his head at her words. “What does it matter if shems steal the land from shems? They already stole it from us.”

“It matters because Sister Leliana believes they’ve been infiltrated by the Venatori,” Dorian told him. “If this is one of Corypheus’ plots, we need to put an end to it.”

Sera sighed loudly. “We kill the robe raisin’ the dead, right?” she said with exaggerated patience. “Then one of the big hats is nice and thankful and invites the Inquisitor to the peace talks with all the other fancy-pants nobles. Maybe they listen, maybe they don’t. But Ciri’s good at talkin’, yeah? So maybe she stops all the fightin’. And all the little people caught in the middle get to go home without wonderin’ if they’ll starve, or if their house will burn down, or somethin’.”

“Go home,” Mahanon echoed. “To the Dirth.” He pointed north. “Verchiel is four days in that direction. Lydes is seven. What happens if the flat-ears –”

Mihris cleared her throat quietly.

“–the city elves don’t want to ‘go home’ to the alienages?” he asked Sera. “Are they your ‘little people,’ too?”

Sera wrinkled her nose. “Why’s it have to be about ears?” she complained. “Nobles are shite to everyone under their boot. You’re not special. We’re not special. Stop makin’ it about elfy stuff. Wars ruin things for everyone.”

“Whoever raised you did you a disservice, _da’len_ ,” Mihris said gently. “But that’s not your fault.”

Sera turned away in a huff. “Ugh! Let’s go fix things, just plain Ciri. The sooner it’s done, the sooner we can get out of here.”

Ciri watched her stomp off a short distance, then looked back at Mahanon and Mihris. “Are there other campsites?”

Mahanon nodded and disappeared into a tent briefly. He came back with a large roll of parchment and indicated for her to follow him and Mihris to the table in the corner of the campsite. Olgierd, Dorian, and Solas followed in their wake.

He unrolled it to reveal a map of the area with heavy black marks all across it. “Here is where Clan Rasyluvun is camped,” he said, tapping a spot by the river. “And here and here are the ramparts where the dead are rising. The grand duke’s army is holed up here in Fort Revasan, led by Marshal Proulx, and the empress’ army is stuck across the river on the other side of a broken bridge. Mihris says there’s a grove behind the fallen rocks here, with Elvhen ruins and a dragon and wyverns beyond it. This is one of the ramparts that hasn’t had undead trouble – Scout Belette spotted soldiers behind the parapets, but they weren’t wearing either army’s colors.”

“Freemen,” Ciri concluded.

“Likely,” Mahanon agreed. “Here and here are the camps we’ve established so far. We’ve spotted Freemen roaming in these areas. Watch out for wolves here and here. And there are rifts here, here, here, here, and here.”

Ciri studied the map for several seconds, making note of everything he’d pointed out. “Was there anything else?”

“We found several oculara, those skulls on poles we were told to keep an eye out for,” Mihris said, “and we gathered the shards they illuminated. The bag is here in the camp.”

“Thank you.” Ciri straightened. “We’ll deal with the undead first, then come meet Keeper Hawen. Please send word back to Skyhold about the broken bridge and the cave-in.”

Mahanon put his fist over his heart and gave the barest imitation of a bow. “We’ll see it done.”

“Thank you, Inquisitor,” Mihris said with an elegant nod.

Ciri led the others out of camp, down the road lined by broken statues of Andrastian heroes with bowls of fire in their hands. Sera’s face was still screwed up in anger as they walked along, and Olgierd nudged her gently with his elbow.

“Which bothered you more?” he asked. “The insult to your parents, or that a girl younger than you called you child?”

Sera blew a raspberry. “Stupid Mirry’s gray already. Maybe she thinks she’s an old lady. And I don’t have parents. I’m an orphan, right? Lady Emmald raised me. I don’t care if some Dalish girl insults _her_.”

Solas watched her quietly, a faint look of discontent in his eyes. Ciri remembered all his fruitless attempts to find common ground with her on the way to the Storm Coast. It seemed he didn’t care to repeat the experience.

“Anyway!” Sera said loudly. “Wot’s it matter that this place got taken hundreds of years ago? That was then. We have to live with the problems we have _now_.”

Any potential response was cut off by a shout from up ahead. Solas and Dorian instantly threw barriers over their group as soldiers appeared from around the corners of a damaged archway. The archer with them raised his bow, but Sera had already nocked, drawn, and loosed in one smooth motion, and her arrow soared away to strike him clean in the eye.

The soldiers rushed them with a cry, weapons raised. Dorian swung his staff out, and lightning lanced down from the clear sky, hitting the one in heavy plate with the tower shield with a bright flash. Solas jabbed his new staff forward. One of his powerful green spells sped out and crashed into another soldier with brutal force.

That left two for her and Olgierd. She slid around the soldier’s swing, feinting to the right and darting in to slash at his side. Frost-coated blood welled up where _Gynvael_ struck, and she danced back as he lunged at her desperately. She snaked her blade around his and twisted, sending it flying, then struck him across the side of the neck with a backhand strike.

She turned to see Olgierd’s opponent crumple at his feet, scorched and bloody. That was the end of them.

Dorian set fire to the bodies and turned to Sera hesitantly, an unusual note of self-effacement in his voice. “I’m one of the last people who should be telling you about elven troubles and how the past matters –”

“So don’t,” Sera interrupted.

He winced but persevered. "But Max – Maxwell Trevelyan – told me a great deal about his area of study. Did you know there were no alienages before the Exalted March on the Dales? Many of today’s problems can be traced back to decisions made centuries ago.”

Sera glared at him as they started walking again. “I see a problem, I fix it. Some noble steps on a little person, maybe that noble gets what’s coming to him. I can’t fix –” She waved her hands at the land around them, at the highway marker telling of the victory over the elves. “– an Exalted March, or alienages! Stop complicating things! And _you_ should get _your_ house in order before you start saying what’s what here. _Your_ people have slaves.”

He winced again. “Yes. Yes, we do.”

“Well, that’s that, then.” Sera turned away only to fix a challenging eye on Olgierd, who smiled at her slightly. “Wot?”

“You care,” he told her. “That’s plenty good enough.”

Her eyes widened, and she grinned at him. “Yeah, and you’re not bad for a mage. And a noble. And whatever else you were.”

Her long, thin finger snaked out to poke at one of the visible scars on his chest, and he caught it gently before it could connect.

“A story for another time,” he deflected, releasing her hand.

“Piss,” Sera pouted.

Up ahead, the wooden walls of the abandoned ramparts rose before them. Ciri could hear the faint sound of rattling within, like dry wood or bones clacking together. A fresh corpse in Gaspard’s colors lay on the bridge that spanned the stake-filled trench surrounding the ramparts, and a rotting skeleton in Celene’s colors, its armor dented and scratched, stood over it with a sword clutched in its bony hand.

Dorian raised his staff, and the twilight-colored net from the caverns below Crestwood fell across the undead soldier. He yanked his staff back. The skeleton dropped to the bridge with a clatter, leaving a ghostly wraith trapped in the net.

“Let’s have a look at you,” Dorian murmured as he reeled the net in closer.

The wraith bobbed in place, oddly quiescent, while Dorian peered at it, seeing things that Ciri couldn’t begin to guess at. Finally, he released it, and the wraith disappeared without a sound.

“They’re tied to something within the ramparts. Another demon is my guess,” Dorian said. “And there’s another spell holding everything together beyond that, but I couldn’t figure out the location.”

“It’s a good start,” Ciri said. “Let’s go undo one part of this.”

They crossed the bridge, passing the dead soldier and the rotting skeleton, and made their way into the ramparts. The rattling grew louder, and she gripped _Gynvael_ as corpses in both army’s colors rose around them.

Fire flew from Olgierd’s hand, and a trio of approaching skeletons went up in a tower of flames. Solas gestured with his staff. Another pair burned to a crisp. Ciri lunged at the nearest one as a barrier settled over her, her sword outstretched.

The skeleton parried clumsily, and Ciri thrust her blade through its rusted cuirass and yanked back. It dropped silently, the eerie light fading from the hollow holes where its eyes used to be.

“If it moves, burn it,” Ciri said. “Come on.”

Solas and Olgierd took the lead as they pushed deeper into the ramparts, fire streaming from their staff and hands. Skin and bone crumpled to ash as spirits attempted to fight through the flames eating through the decaying tendons and rusting armor holding them together. Ciri took careful, even breaths, trying not to let the overwhelming scent of rot and death turn her stomach.

Something screeched hoarsely ahead of them just beyond a short flight of stairs. Ciri stiffened. It sounded like a despair demon, only…only something was slightly off.

Solas cast a barrier again, and he gave Ciri a look of warning. “Be on your guard. I fear the demon that awaits us is more dangerous than our usual foes.”

 _How bad could it possibly be?_ They'd faced a handful of pride demons and prevailed, and those were certainly not 'usual.' And the Nightmare had tormented them, but in the end, it fell all too easily. Still, she nodded to him in understanding.

They proceeded up the stairs cautiously and rounded the corner. The hoarse screech cut across the rattling sound of the undead rising, and something swooped ahead, something tall and bony, with ragged black robes. And just beyond it lay a pit piled high with bodies, surrounded by a glowing barrier of icy blue-white magic.

 _“Kaffas!”_ Dorian swore as he summoned lightning to strike the hovering undead. “Stay out of its range and prepare to dodge!”

The possessed skeleton raised its arms, and blinding blue light collected at the tips of its withered fingers. With a wave of its bony hands, the light flew toward them. Ciri dove out of the way as Olgierd teleported from her side and Solas and Dorian Fade-stepped to safety. Sera somersaulted clear of the spell’s path but cursed as a skeleton rose in front of her.

“Shite!”

The blue light clipped Ciri’s ankle, and she cried out in surprise, then pain, as it melted through the barrier. Olgierd shouted and threw a ball of fire at the thing, breaking the spell, and she got to her feet and took a limping step. She felt strangely weak, like the skeleton had attacked some intrinsic part of her, not just her body.

It disappeared and reappeared, popping up again and again to cast agonizingly powerful blue spells and strange, spiraling green spells. She managed to strike it with _Gynvael_ twice, but it barely flinched at the icy blade. All around her, Olgierd, Solas, and Dorian summoned fire to combat it. Sera clambered up a post to shoot every dead thing that moved. Their spells hit the barrier occasionally as the skeleton teleported away from the flames, and after one hit too many it flickered and died.

Finally, it fell to the ground at Solas’ feet, and the remaining undead soldiers collapsed with it. Breathing heavily, he went to Ciri’s side and placed a hand on her forehead, concern written across his face.

“Spirit damage is an unpleasant experience,” he said. “You did well facing it. There wasn’t much else you could have done with your magic and Fade-step restricted.”

Warmth flowed from the palm of his hand into her head and down to her toes, and her lingering weakness vanished. She smiled at him and reached up to give his wrist a quick, grateful squeeze as he pulled his hand away. “What was it?”

Dorian answered her. “An arcane horror. A mage possessed by a pride demon. Exceedingly rare, and given that this one seems to be the anchor for the spell I was sensing, I suspect it was deliberately done.”

Ciri looked beyond the bundle of rags and bones to the pit piled high with the dead. “Then the Freemen – and the Venatori – have much to answer for. Let’s burn the bodies and move on.”

They still had a great deal of work to do.

* * *

The rift snapped shut above their heads, and Ciri shook out her tingling hand. She shot Olgierd a look of concern, but he’d already turned away, his face composed. There’d been no help from within the rift today, nor in the one they’d dealt with yesterday. Adventure – Vlodimir – was still absent.

Sera watched him for a moment, then said, a rare note of sincerity in her voice, “Sorry about your demon friend. Spirit. Whatever.”

“My thanks.” Olgierd smiled faintly at her. “He’d have liked you.”

She made a face at that, and he chuckled. “Bad enough I’ve got that minstrel in the tavern singin’ that stupid ditty about me. Don’t need a demon tryin’ to cozy up to me, too.”

Despite herself, Ciri laughed at the thought. “What do you think he’d have called her?” she asked Olgierd. “‘My alluring archer?’”

“ _Eugh_.” Sera began to stride away, calling back over her shoulder, “Come on, lazy arses! Fort Reva-whatsit’s this way.”

“ _Revasan_ ,” Solas corrected her, too quietly for her to hear.

Ciri shook her head as she fell into step between him and Olgierd while Dorian hastened to catch up with Sera. “A fort named with the elven word for freedom, in a land stolen from the elves, sitting occupied by Orlesian humans. And many of them are bound to be chevaliers.”

Owain had told her plenty about the chevaliers of Orlais before her first trip to Val Royeaux. He’d spoken of their cruelty and barbarism toward commoners of every race, but toward elves in particular, and how they played at civility with a code of conduct they weren’t above breaking when it suited them. He’d mentioned their infamous graduation ritual, how on the night an aspirant became a chevalier they took their new sword into the alienage to ‘test’ its blade against men and women forbidden to own so much as a dagger.

And Grand Duke Gaspard led their order.

“The irony is sharp enough to cut,” Olgierd agreed.

Solas gazed around at the devastated landscape. In the distance, a solitary blue cottage stood broken, only two scorched walls remaining. Its red-tiled roof crumpled in to rest where people had once lived. "So much death and destruction," he said quietly. "When the great and powerful order their armies to war, always it is the poor and the innocent who suffer the most harm."

“We’ll put an end to it,” Ciri said, placing a reassuring hand on his shoulder for a moment.

He nodded to her with a small, appreciative smile. “I’m certain the common people of the Exalted Plains will appreciate the war coming to a close, and stability returning to the region.”

“‘Exalted Plains?’” Ciri echoed. “Not ‘Dirthavaren’? I’d have thought you would side with the elves on this matter.”

He tilted his head in acknowledgment of the question. “I sympathize with their loss and understand the pain they must feel. But I have little patience for the Dalish. They cling to scattered remnants of their past and hold themselves as ‘keepers of the lost lore.’” He let out a rather indelicate snort. “I met a Dalish clan in my wanderings. I thought to share my knowledge with them. They were…less than receptive.”

“One clan,” Ciri rebutted gently. “Out of dozens. And Solas, not to be rude, but you can be…”

His lavender-gray eyes crinkled up into another smile. “You’ve already called me an ass once, _lethallin._ Do not hesitate to do so again.”

“Condescending,” Ciri said instead. “And there’s something honorable, admirable, even, in the way the Dalish have preserved what remains of Elvhen culture. So much was lost to history. They took what remained and created a new culture. There’s beauty in that.”

Solas hummed thoughtfully, neither agreeing nor disagreeing.

“What of the city elves?” she asked him. “Do you feel the same way about them?”

“Their plight should be enough to move even the hardest of hearts,” he said, “but too many of them have given up on ever having better. They’re resigned to squalor and privation. They cannot imagine a life where they stand tall and look humans in the eye. They’re shadows of a once-mighty people. Echoes of the last gasp of a dead empire.”

“Yes, you’re occasionally an ass as well,” Ciri said with mild annoyance.

“It is a harsh judgment,” he allowed. “But I don’t consider them my kin. They’re not…” He trailed off in frustration.

He had recent Elvhen blood, Ciri recalled. He hadn’t explained just how, though she expected it was much the same as how Leliana and Josephine had woven her own tale, of an ancient elf awakening in the modern world and finding love with one of the elves of that Age. It was a shame he didn’t see the other side of his family as worthy of kinship.

“Then who are your people, if not city elves or the Dalish?” Olgierd asked.

“I would count Ciri among them.” Solas said it fondly, though he seemed to hold an air of sadness at the thought. “Despite her human form, her blood and magic are deeply Elvhen.”

Ciri didn’t react other than to smile back at him. But the part of her that didn’t feel a sting of regret at deceiving him wondered at that sadness.

Sera called out as they approached a weathered archway bracketed by rocky cliffs overgrown with vegetation. “Fightin’ up ahead!”

Ciri unsheathed _Gynvael_ and hurried to catch up. The sounds of steel clashing against steel, and men grunting and shouting, carried toward her down the path. As they rounded the bend, she could see a handful of men in Gaspard’s colors facing off against soldiers in similar colors, Celene’s colors, and no colors at all. Freemen.

Sera loosed an arrow into the fray, and a soldier in Celene’s colors choked and dropped. Combat faltered for a breath as heads turned to see where it came from.

“The Inquisitor!” a man wearing Gaspard’s colors cried.

“Kill her!” shouted a woman in no colors. “She’s worth a fortune!”

Dorian cast a barrier over their group as Solas gestured almost lazily with his staff. Lightning raced down from the sky, skirting the trees to strike three of the attacking Freemen. Ciri dashed forward, Olgierd at her side.

She found herself shoulder to shoulder with one of Gaspard’s soldiers, pushing back a Freeman armed with a mace and buckler. She lashed out with _Gynvael_ , and the Freeman staggered in pain but struck back. His blow swiped through empty space as she dodged nimbly away. The soldier slammed the Freeman with their shield, knocking him to the ground. Ciri darted back in to finish him off.

The fighting died down around her, and she looked around at the surviving soldiers. Some were wincing and gently prodding at their wounds. One stood over a corpse and spat, then kicked it for good measure.

“Olgierd,” she said simply.

The soldier jumped back with a curse as flames engulfed the corpses, and she turned away to find their leader.

The soldier she’d fought alongside came up to her and nodded in approval. Their eyes were pale blue beneath their full-face mask and helmet, and their shapeless brigandine was smudged with dirt and blood. The yellow feather in their helmet was ragged.

“You arrived just in time, Inquisitor,” the soldier said with a light, clear voice. “My squad and I were just leaving Fort Revasan when the _salauds_ ambushed us. Traitorous deserters – thought they could get the better of the grand duke’s chevaliers!”

“They almost did,” Ciri said.

The soldier made a small sound of disagreement and pointed up the hill toward the fort. “Our commander, Marshal Proulx, will want to speak with you. He sent a man out to reclaim the western ramparts a few days ago but hasn’t had word back.”

That would probably be the corpse they’d seen, Ciri realized. “You realize we’re here strictly to investigate and deal with the undead issue,” she told the soldier. “We’re not taking sides in your conflict.”

“You will eventually.” The soldier sounded confident. “Grand Duke Gaspard is the rightful ruler of the empire, and the sooner the Inquisition acknowledges his claim, the better it will go for you.”

Ciri gave them a bland, polite smile. “I’ll take it under advisement.”

She left the soldiers behind as the flames died down. Olgierd strode along beside her, and he lowered his voice to keep his words from carrying.

“Did my ears deceive me, or did that chevalier attempt to threaten you?”

“They did, and clumsily,” Ciri said quietly. “Choose the warmonger who thinks elves are a step removed from animals, and all will be well, or choose the empress who killed thousands of elves to preserve her reputation, and the Inquisition will suffer.”

“You intend to act on what we learned in the future?” he asked. “To stop the assassination of the empress?”

She sighed. “That’s the plan.”

A breath of laughter escaped him. “Your enthusiasm is palpable.”

“ _Politics_ , Olgierd,” she groaned. “The Wardens were one thing, but this? We have people watching her to prevent a dagger in her back and poison in her tea already. Josephine and Leliana suspect Corypheus’ agent will strike at the peace talks because it will cause the most chaos, but that just means an entire night of pretending to ignore petty insults from racist nobles while I prepare to save a woman I dislike intensely.”

“True,” he agreed. His arm dropped around her shoulders for a brief squeeze. “I don’t envy you the burden.”

“Ha. Thanks ever so much.”

“Consider it this way, dear. If Josephine and Sister Leliana are wrong, then you’re getting a night of music and dancing in a fancy new gown out of this adventure. If they’re right, then all of Orlais will be in your debt by the end of the masquerade.”

“Since when are you such an optimist?” she asked him.

“I’ve spent too much time around good people of late,” he said, his eyes bright with amusement, “and it’s ruining my ability to be dour.”

Ciri grinned up at him. “Good.”

She resolved to try to think of it his way. She was looking forward to the new gown, even if it did mean she’d have to deal with a palace full of Orlesian nobility for a night, and it might even be fun dancing with Owain. Though she doubted Orlesian dances were anything like the carefree turns around the campfire she’d taken after closing the Breach.

The soldiers standing guard outside the fortress doors stood to attention at their approach. One of them reached out to bang on the door – three hard, quick knocks. The door swung open from the inside, and Ciri led the way into Fort Revasan.

A stout man in a gilded suit of armor with a rather fanciful full-face mask and helmet caught her eye from across the courtyard. He was another with the distinctive yellow chevalier feather in his helmet. None of the other soldiers seemed quite so important, but another, slower look around the fort’s courtyard revealed three more yellow feathers.

Ciri hid her frown and walked over. The chevalier stood from his seat near the wall where he’d been reading through missives and greeted her with the barest jerk of his head. 

“Inquisitor.” He paused. “I can see why the rumors took hold. Your coloring is quite similar to Celene’s, and it’s known she takes after her late father, Prince Reynaud.”

“Inquisitor Morhen,” Ciri said dryly. “I just saved a squad of your soldiers from an ambush. But please, do go on about my supposed bastardy.”

The man waved a dismissive hand. “You’re no bastard, Inquisitor. An elf-blooded Valmont? Pah. You’d be too much trouble for them to let live.” He paused again. “And thank you, of course, for you and your...companions’...most generous assistance. Marshal Bastien Proulx, at your service.”

His voice held polite contempt as his gaze went past her shoulders, and Sera made a short, rude noise in response. Solas stayed silent.

“Marshal,” Ciri replied with strained politeness.

Ciri’s eyes dropped to the sword at his waist. It appeared to be of high quality and well cared for, and the leather grip looked a few decades old. She wondered how many elves had died the night he earned his yellow feather.

“We heard you sent a man to reclaim the western ramparts,” she said. “I’m afraid to tell you he failed. We came upon a fresh corpse in the grand duke’s colors when we cleared it of undead a few days ago.”

“Ah, _merde_.” Proulx made a fist at his side. “Rosselin was a good man. He’ll be missed.”

“My condolences. We also cleared the undead from the largest of the ramparts. It’s safe to return there as well. Our next stop is the eastern ramparts, the ones the Freemen have claimed. Do you have any intelligence on what’s happening behind the walls there?”

“Cowards,” Proulx growled. “Honorless curs, craven deserters! Soft children with no stomach for war. They came for a skirmish or two, thought they’d be home by supper. Ha! So they ran. And now what? They think they can steal land that rightfully belongs to our emperor? We’ll sort them out.”

“Marshal,” Ciri interrupted. “Who leads them? What will we face?”

“A war mage called Gordian, a deserter from Celene’s forces,” he said. His helmeted head tilted toward her. “Did that cur cause this? The undead, the demons?”

Dorian stepped in to answer. “To an extent. Any land that’s seen so much battle will attract demons, and spirits are drawn to corpses when the Veil is weakened as it is here. But for them to rise in such numbers requires outside interference. We’ve ended a few of the spells he’s cast, but the only way to truly put a stop to it would be for the fighting to cease entirely.”

Proulx snorted. “All engagements are on hold until there’s an outcome from the peace talks. We’ll see if your words are true.”

“Who else would be with this Gordian?” Olgierd asked.

“A dozen misbegotten cowards who think the walls will protect them from our wrath,” Proulx said, his gauntleted hand tightening into a fist again. “There are more, of course, but Gordian sends them out to harry us and cause trouble. You shouldn’t have much of a fight, so long as you can make it past the archers on the battlements.”

Ciri nodded. “That won’t be a problem.”

“Then I wish you luck, Inquisitor. And if you see those painted savages across the river, perhaps you could encourage them to move on.” He scoffed and held up his hands at her glare. “Politely, of course.”

Ciri held her glare for another second, then turned to leave. “Thank you, Marshal Proulx. This has been an enlightening conversation.”

“We heard of your merciful streak, even out here,” Proulx called after her. “‘The Maker’s Hand extends the Maker’s mercy.’ Do not waste it on the undeserving, Inquisitor, even if you do share their unfortunate blood. If you don’t harden your heart to the rabbits, we’ll have another Halamshiral riot on our hands.”

She stalked back through Fort Revasan’s doors, her back stiff with anger. No one spoke as they left the remnants of Gaspard’s army behind, but when they were far enough away, Dorian cleared his throat quietly.

“No one would blame you if you left them to their fate. I certainly wouldn’t.”

“ _I’d_ blame myself,” Ciri said with a sigh. “No. We’ll finish this. Not for them, but for Clan Rasyluvun. They deserve better than to have Dirthavaren overrun by walking dead and demons.”

And surely there had to be decent people in Gaspard and Celene’s armies. They couldn’t all be like the chevaliers.

The eastern ramparts weren’t far. Ciri spotted movement at the top of the barricades as they approached, and she gestured subtly. A barrier dropped across her in the same instant that a cry of alarm rang out from up above. An arrow flew toward her, and she spun out of the way, _Gynvael_ extended to cut through the shaft.

Lightning crackled and shot down to strike the deserters on the parapets. As they moaned and yelled, Sera loosed arrow after arrow, aiming for every stray head or hand that poked up from behind the wall. The gates slammed open, and a Freeman in ornate plate armor bearing a tower shield steadily crossed the bridge over the spike-filled ditch, only to halt and cry out in pain as another bolt of lightning slammed into him.

Ciri and Olgierd attacked in tandem, their blades seeking out the few vulnerable places left uncovered by the suit of armor. Olgierd’s saber hilt cracked down on the Freeman’s wrist. The tower shield dropped with a muted clang against the wooden boards. Ciri struck his side, and the armor gave beneath _Gynvael_ , frost lining the edges of the rents and blood welling up from the gash.

Olgierd swung at the Freeman’s neck, right where the gorget met the breastplate. The man choked, then fell, one hand clutching his throat and the other convulsively clutching his sword. He struggled for a long, painful moment, then fell still.

“Is that the last of them?” Ciri asked, rubbing her throat in sympathy.

“Last of these tits,” Sera confirmed. “More in there, though.”

“Then let’s finish this.”

She led the way through the gates and into the eastern ramparts. Solas and Olgierd set fire to the bodies as they passed. The interior appeared barren and overgrown with weeds. Despite the Freemen controlling it, they’d left it to run down without any military hierarchy imposing order.

Solas cast another barrier as they approached a smaller gate. Ciri pushed it open and ducked to the side as a knife whistled past her ear.

“Get the Inquisitor!” one of the Freemen screeched. “A fortune to whoever brings the Red Div – _urk_!”

Sera’s arrow snuffed his life out mid-sentence. His compatriots howled and threw themselves forward, blades bared. Ciri engaged a swordswoman, feinting and striking, dodging blows and returning them twofold. All around her, fire and lightning roared and crackled. Solas’ green spell smashed a dagger-wielding Freeman into the dirt. Her opponent fell at last, covered in a dozen rime-edged wounds.

She held up a hand and tilted her head to listen as the fighting died around her. Her ears picked up the sounds of shuffling feet and low muttering just beyond the wooden walls. Without a word, they slipped through the narrow opening and wound their way toward the soft voices. Once again, a barrier dropped over her as she approached the gap. She adjusted her grip on _Gynvael_ and stepped out.

A blue-white spell sped toward her, and she somersaulted out of the way only to rise to her feet and dance back as icy glyphs scattered across the ground. A mage all in white, from his white boots to his puffy white hat, stood safely behind another pit stacked with bodies, waving a staff and exhorting his fellows.

More Freemen came out from behind a dismal-looking tree, all armed and out for blood.

Solas swept his staff out with an elegant gesture. The glyphs dissipated, and Ciri darted toward a warrior, free to move again. He was faster than the woman before and just managed to parry her strike. She broke away and feinted left as fire bloomed to the right of her. Then the strange, almost-adrenaline feeling from the Deep Roads filled her again, and the world around her slowed to a crawl.

Ciri cut the Freeman down and moved on to the next enemy, Sera’s arrows striking alongside her sword. The third fell to Olgierd. She turned to see Solas and Dorian battering the mage in white, Solas with his green spells and Dorian with haunting purple ones. He toppled over, too, and Ciri swayed for a moment as Dorian’s time spell fell away.

“Is that the end of it?” she asked Dorian.

He nodded firmly. “The mage – Gordian, was it? – was the source of the spell creating all the arcane horrors and the undead. Whatever corpses rise now, it will be because of the armies fighting, not because of outside interference.”

“Good. Search him, please,” she said with a nod to the white-clad mage. “And maybe take a look through that tower for any information about the Venatori. As for the rest…” She gazed about at the fallen Freemen, and at the pit of corpses in the center of the area. “Burn them with the others.”

She helped haul the dead to the pit and took a seat on a crate by the wall as the flames began to consume the bodies. Her eyes slid shut, and she leaned back against the rough boards, doing her best not to breathe too deeply. A hand on her shoulder made her look up.

“Nothing about the Venatori,” Dorian reported. “Gordian wasn’t that careless. But there were missives in the tower to and from a few others in the Emerald Groves. Duhaime, Maliphant, and a Sister Costeau.”

Ciri sighed. “We’ll send it all back to Skyhold for Leliana to look into.”

She got to her feet and looked around. Everyone appeared as tired as she felt. It had been a long few days.

“Back to camp,” she said. “Let’s hope Clan Rasyluvun is easier to deal with tomorrow than the demons and Orlesians were.”


	55. Dalish and Mysteries

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ciri has a brief meeting with Clan Rasyluvun and goes off to finish Valorin's work. A glyph in the shrine to Sylaise sparks an uneasy memory for Mihris, leading them all in an unexpected direction.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> beta-read by brightspot149. Thank you!
> 
> There won't be a chapter next Saturday, since I'll be busy with family holiday stuff. I hope you all have a great one, whatever you celebrate!

Ciri spotted the sails first, deep red and triangular, bold against the gray rocks and muted greenery that surrounded the Dalish camp. Then she heard voices calling to one another in Mihris’ lilting accent over the soft rushing sound of the stream, the words a mix of Common and Elven. As she drew closer, she could hear the faint bleating of some sort of animal and could see people bustling about. Over the smell of the stream’s muddy banks, the air carried the scents of woodsmoke, leather, resins, and herbs their way.

The striking red sails were connected to wheeled wagons painted with red and white designs – _aravels_ , she reminded herself. It wouldn’t do to make a poor first impression and misname their transportation.

Mahanon beckoned from the stream’s edge. “We ford here, where it’s shallowest.”

Ciri looked across. The activity continued without pause in the camp, though eyes darted toward them surreptitiously. An older elven man in fine, pale green robes watched with his arms crossed, his face still and stern.

She followed in Mahanon’s footsteps, unable to keep from making a face as the cold water flowed over the tops of her boots to soak her stockings. Solas, Olgierd, Dorian, and Sera followed behind, with Mihris bringing up the rear.

Mahanon led her to the stern older elf. “Keeper Hawen,” he said respectfully, “This is the Inquisitor.”

“Inquisitor Morhen.” The lines in his face deepened as he frowned. “ _An’daran atish’an_. Be welcome in our camp. Mihris and Mahanon speak well of you and your Inquisition.”

“ _‘Ma serannas_ ,” Ciri said with a polite nod. “It’s gracious of you to allow all of us into your camp, and I can see you’d rather we were elsewhere. We’ll do our best to help, and then we’ll be on our way.”

“We have a troubled history with the _shemlen_ ,” Keeper Hawen said, “as Mihris has told us you are aware.” His eyes were hard as he looked over Olgierd and Dorian, though they softened slightly when they landed on Solas and Sera. “Our city elf kin are always welcome. We aren’t a clan who would turn away those unfortunate enough to be born to the alienages.”

Sera snorted rudely, and Keeper Hawen stiffened.

“As for you,” he continued, his frown deepening. “We have heard the rumors. All of them. The one your Inquisition claims is true is the cruelest cut. We are the last of the Elvhen, descended from the noble families who ruled the Dales. If one of the Elvhen woke to this world, why would she seek out a _shemlen_? We were her people.”

“Perhaps she did, and you turned her away,” Solas said, his voice unreadable. “Would the Dalish recognize the Elvhen they so revere if one appeared before them now?”

Keeper Hawen's brows knitted together as he looked past Ciri at Solas. "The Elvhen were powerful beyond any mortal and possessed wisdom lost for thousands of years. We would know them at once and welcome them as kin and forebear."

Solas didn’t answer. Ciri turned to see him tuck away a small, amused smile, his face smooth and blandly disinterested once more.

 _Ass_ , Ciri thought in irritation. She looked back at Keeper Hawen and sighed. “I’m sorry that my ancestry brings you pain or causes offense, Keeper. If I could relive that day I told the advisors and ask them to keep it a secret, I would.”

He shook his head. “No. Do not let our pain and confusion make you wish to hide something you should take pride in. You may be a _shemlen_ , but perhaps you may call us your people as well someday. In time.”

“That’s kind of you.” Ciri held up a battered journal and extended it toward the keeper. “We have word of Emalien’s brother, Valorin. I’m afraid it’s not good news.”

“Ah, Valorin.” He reached out and pushed the journal gently back. “Emalien has been worried for days. At least she’ll have closure. Such misfortune has plagued our clan since we came to the Dirth this year. These soldiers dig ditches that trip our halla and break the wheels on our aravels. Taven disappeared to the Emerald Graves chasing rumors, abandoning the clan when we need him most. And until Mahanon and Mihris came, we couldn’t visit our dead in Var Bellanaris. I tell you, Inquisitor, Fen’Harel stalks these lands.”

Ciri vaguely remembered the name from a dream. “Fen’Harel…that’s your betrayer god.”

“Oh, don’t,” Sera complained. “Don’t get interested in the elfy religion.”

“It’s your religion, too, _da’len_ ,” Keeper Hawen said to Sera.

“‘S not,” Sera retorted. “There’s the Maker, and there’s Andraste. I know wot’s right.”

Keeper Hawen looked at her for a long, silent moment, his eyes full of sadness. Ciri glanced at Solas and saw him watching both the keeper and Sera with a nearly identical expression before he saw her looking and tipped his head at her, sadness falling away.

“Emalien is over there,” Hawen said, pointing deeper into the camp. “I’ll ask that your _shemlen_ companions not wander without one of the People accompanying them, Dalish or bare-faced. We’ll make an exception for you.”

“We understand,” Olgierd said with a shallow bow. “There’s naught I can say to ease your fears. But we’ll follow your edicts to the letter.”

“Time will tell if your words are empty,” Keeper Hawen said. “Mahanon, Mihris, please introduce them to Emalien.”

Ciri followed Mahanon and Mihris away from the stream’s edge, past campfires and a pen with large, elegant, white-furred beasts with hooves and long, spiraling horns. Among them was one with faintly golden fur, and it gazed back at her with dark, intelligent eyes.

“Those are the halla,” Mihris said quietly. “Our partners and friends. They pull the aravels because we ask them to, not because they’re broken to the bit like your horses and oxen.”

“They’re the most beloved creation of Ghilan’nain, goddess of guides and navigation,” Mahanon added.

Behind Ciri, Solas made a soft sound of disagreement, not loud enough for their Dalish guides to hear. She resolved to ask him his version of the Dalish legends when they were away from the camp.

“Emalien,” Mahanon called out as they approached a young woman touching up paint on the side of an _aravel_.

Emalien turned with a smile that faded swiftly as she saw the company Mahanon kept. “Oh. Always good to see you, Mahanon. And you, Mihris,” she said with forced friendliness.

“Emalien,” Mihris returned.

“And this must be the Inquisitor,” Emalien said, looking Ciri up and down. “Does Loranil know his hero is in camp?”

Mahanon shook his head. “Not yet.”

Ciri set that aside to be chased down later and extended the journal again. “I’m so sorry, Emalien,” she said gently. “We found your brother. He –”

“No,” Emalien interrupted, snatching the journal from her hands. “No!” She clutched it to her chest as her eyes filled with tears. “What was he even doing out there?”

Ciri hesitated and glanced at Mahanon and Mihris. “I’m not certain. It looked like a ritual of some sort. His journal mentioned that he was looking for a talisman, or an amulet, belonging to someone named Lindiranae. He seemed to have intended to summon a spirit to guide him to it, or possibly a demon, and the spell went awry.”

“ _Fenhedis_! What do I care about Lindiranae’s talisman when my brother is dead?” Emalien narrowed her teary eyes at Mihris in a fierce glare. “Did you put this in his head, you spiteful bitch? Valorin never would have done this before you set foot in our camp. He wouldn’t have been so foolish!”

Mihris stumbled back a pace, blood draining from her pale face. “I’d never! Do you think I want Keeper Thelhen’s mistakes repeated? I never spoke more than two words to your brother, Emalien, and neither of them included the words ‘summon’ or ‘demon.’”

“The keeper was right,” Emalien said bitterly. “You are cursed.”

“ _Ir abelas, lethallin_ ,” Mahanon said, a note of warning in his voice. “I understand your pain. But don’t blame my First for your brother’s foolishness.”

Emalien drew herself up stiffly, her arms tight around the journal. “Leave me be. The clan will need to be told, and we’ll need to mourn – _without_ outsiders.”

“I understand,” Ciri said. “I’m sorry for your loss.”

They left the camp the way they’d arrived, fording the stream at its shallowest point. Keeper Hawen stared out at them for a long moment, then turned away.

“She shouldn’t have blamed you, _lethallin_ ,” Mahanon said to Mihris.

Mihris shrugged. “I understand. It’s easier to be angry than to address grief properly. I don’t hold it against her. I know Valorin’s choices weren’t my fault.”

“You don’t have to come back here if you don’t want to,” Ciri offered.

She felt for Mihris. Clan Lavellan’s new First was much too young to bear the weight of an entire clan’s scorn, especially when all she wanted was to help.

“That may be for the best,” Mihris agreed. She paused and looked upstream, then back at Ciri. “Valorin’s journal made mention of the shrine to Sylaise just up the stream as a possible hiding spot for Lindiranae’s talisman. We might retrieve it and give it to Clan Rasyluvun – finish Valorin’s quest for him.”

“Or keep it for Clan Lavellan,” Mahanon countered. “Lindiranae was a hero to all elves, not just one clan. And they hardly deserve it after treating you so poorly.”

Mihris looked at him with reproachful eyes. “ _Lethallan_.”

Mahanon sighed gustily and threw his hands in the air. “Fine. But they don’t deserve it.”

Ciri did like the idea of finishing Valorin's work. She looked around and saw no argument on anyone's face, though Sera seemed reluctant. Whether it had to do with the elven hero or their destination, she didn't know and didn't feel like asking.

They began walking upstream, Mihris in the lead. Ciri dropped back to walk beside Solas, and with a quick look at Mahanon to ensure her words wouldn’t carry, asked, “You disagreed about Ghilan’nain. How do the Fade’s accounts differ?”

“In the Fade, the earlier I look, the less I see a beloved guide and mother of Halla, and the more I see a mad inventor of monsters, someone whose creativity was only matched by her depravity,” he said quietly. “The other ‘gods’ forced her to destroy most of her projects out of fear they would destroy the world. It is said she was raised to godhood in exchange for the destruction of those creations. The giant we fought in the Western Approach? One of her projects.”

Ciri looked at him sharply. “You make it sound like they were real people, not just figures of worship.”

“That is how they appear to me in the Fade.”

It wasn’t that different from Andraste, she realized after a moment. Andraste had been a flesh and blood person, a prophet of a new religion, only to be elevated to a place of divinity as the Maker’s Bride after her death. Perhaps the Elvhen gods had been real people, too, several thousand years ago. It didn’t make the Dalish religion any less valid than the humans’.

No wonder the Dalish clan Solas had come across in his ‘wanderings’ hadn’t been receptive. If he’d tried to tell them that the very foundations of their religion and culture were wrong, they must have chased him out at arrow-point!

She snuck a sidelong glance at him as they walked. Solas had learned much from his dream visits to the Fade. She’d enjoyed his stories – the one about the spirit of love who matchmade village boys and girls was her favorite, though she also liked the one about the lost city of Barindur, and the story of the dwarven thaig falling to a darkspawn horde had nearly moved her to tears.

But there was something different in how he spoke of Ghilan’nain. He'd explained that the Fade reflected the physical world and that spirits would play out different interpretations of the same event or person. His description of the halla goddess, of the 'mad inventor,' was concrete. Absolute. It didn't fit with his other Fade stories.

And yet she believed his words. He spoke them with conviction, as if they were an unassailable fact. Ciri had to wonder if his Elvhen ancestor had lived long enough to share their stories of Elvhenan with him, and to keep the pretense up he just said he saw everything in the Fade. That taunt to Keeper Hawen – had his ancestor been turned away from a clan? Did that play a part in his grudge against the Dalish?

Something about that explanation seemed too pat. She’d need to think on it some more later.

They trekked up the bank past bent trees and flowing water, walking single file as the path narrowed and rose. It evened out at the mouth of a damaged elven ruin, masonry scattered across the ground everywhere.

“Here we are,” Mihris announced as she led the way down the broken steps to a surprisingly intact door. “The shrine to Sylaise.”

Sera held up a hand and cocked her head. "Hear that?"

“There’s someone in there.” Ciri drew _Gynvael_ and readied herself.

Mahanon shoved the door open, and two masked Orlesian soldiers bereft of identifying colors stared at them for a heartbeat before reaching for their weapons with a yell. Dorian jabbed his staff at them, and lightning shot down from the shrine’s dark ceiling. Solas’ green spell smashed them against the back wall with bone-breaking force. Twin arrows flew from Sera and Mahanon’s bows and lodged in the small, soft spaces uncovered by the masks.

It was over in seconds. Ciri sheathed her blade again and entered the shrine. “We’ll have to drag them out to see to their remains,” she said. “What were they even doing here?”

“Looting,” Mahanon scoffed. “As they do. Shems hear rumors of elven treasure and destroy our old temples and buildings in search of a stray statuette. Fools.”

A soft white light illuminated the space, and Ciri turned to see the top of Mihris’ staff aglow as she slowly walked the perimeter of the room. Solas, Dorian, and Olgierd followed suit.

“This place has always puzzled me,” Mihris said as she peered at a crack in the masonry. “If it’s a shrine to the Hearthkeeper, where is her statue? We simply know it’s dedicated to her, for that’s what we’ve been told.”

“Hm.” Solas packed a wealth of dismissiveness into a single soft noise.

Dorian extended a hand to a metal brazier affixed to the wall, and ghostly greenish-blue flames filled it. “I wonder if there’s a rune or glyph on the walls here,” he said. “Some sort of clue.”

Ciri wandered along the walls, her eyes peeled for any discoloration or chinks in the ancient grout. Mihris had an excellent point. A shrine should have a statue in it for worshipers to kneel to.

As she reached the center of the third wall, her fingers stopped. The cool stone blocks felt ever so slightly different beneath her fingers, the grout slightly crumbly.

“Over here,” she called out. “This wall – I think it’s newer.”

“And I found the glyph!” Dorian called back.

Olgierd joined Ciri at the wall, and he pressed his hand beside hers. “You’re right,” he murmured. “We’ll have to kick it down – this will get messy.”

The two of them raised their booted feet and aimed their heels at the crumbling grout, kicking hard. A block broke from the wall, then another. Chips and grout flew everywhere. Once the hole was large enough, they began to pry the bricks loose with their hands. Finally, panting, they stood back.

Behind the false wall stood a recessed nook holding a statue of an elven woman – Sylaise, presumably. At her feet, surrounded by broken stones and loose grout, lay a withered corpse in decayed remnants of elven robes, clutching something in their fist. Ciri knelt and carefully pried the item loose.

It appeared to be a pendant of some sort, golden and round with tiny inlaid semi-precious stones forming an image she could barely make out. She gently brushed bits of dirt and flakes of the corpse’s skin to the floor and brought it closer to Mihris’ soft white light.

“This is it,” Mihris said in a hushed voice. “You found it. Lindiranae’s talisman. The shemlen took her sword, _Evanura_ , as a war prize when she fell, but no one ever knew what became of her necklace.”

“Until today.” Ciri pressed it into Mihris’ hand and folded her fingers over it. “It belongs to your people, Mihris. Whether you give it to Clan Rasyluvun or keep it for Clan Lavellan, you have a part of your history back.”

Ciri thought for a moment that the teenager was about to embrace her, but Mihris just nodded hard and turned her eyes to the pendant in her hand, rubbing her thumb lightly across its surface.

Mahanon knelt by the corpse and rested a hand on the stick-thin shoulder. “ _Serannasen ma, falon_ ,” he said quietly. “ _Dar’atisha_.”

Even Sera didn’t seem inclined to make light of the moment, and Solas watched Mihris and Mahanon with an expression Ciri couldn’t quite interpret. She walked away to quietly ask Dorian, “What were you saying about finding a glyph?”

He led her to the far wall, where a luminous, pale blue-green image shone at eye level. It had an abstract beauty to it, but Ciri couldn’t make out what it was supposed to be.

“Touch it,” Dorian prompted her.

She did. The image of a hawk and a hare chasing the sun flashed through her mind’s eye vividly, then disappeared again. “How –”

“Old elven magic,” Dorian said. “Magisters use something similar to conceal their private correspondence. I don’t doubt they stole the idea from the elves.”

Mihris joined them at the wall and looked up at the glyph. She brushed her fingers across it and pulled them back with a faint frown.

“What is it?” Ciri asked.

“There’s something about this,” she murmured. “My memories… Mahanon and I found two others like it. One in the old elven baths, and one down the hill by the collapsed tunnel. A pair of hands cupped around the moon, and the Keeper of Secrets on the back of a crow.”

“What about your memories, Mihris?”

“Imshael was…clever. Insidious.” She shook her head, her eyes still fixed on the glyph. “He knew these glyphs. Something about it escapes me. But it amused him. It led to something he found amusing.”

“Are there more?” Ciri asked. She didn’t know how Mihris would know Imshael’s mind so well, but she had suspicions – suspicions she wouldn’t voice.

“One more,” Mihris said decisively. Then she faltered. “But I don’t know where.”

“We might ask the Dalish clan if they know,” Olgierd suggested. “You did intend to deliver that talisman to them.”

“They likely won’t receive us again so soon,” Mihris said. “Not after what Emalien said. But you’re right. They’re our best option, and I do want to give them the talisman.”

She returned to the little nook in the wall and bowed her head before the statue. Ciri gestured to Olgierd, Dorian, and Solas, and between the four of them, they managed to haul the Freemen's bodies back up the stairs and out of the shrine. Mahanon joined them after a minute, the shriveled elven corpse hoisted carefully in his arms.

“She goes to Clan Rasyluvun,” he said, as if in anticipation of an argument. “They can lay her to rest in Var Bellanaris.”

“Of course,” Ciri agreed at once. “She deserves to lie among her people.”

Olgierd set the Freemen’s corpses aflame with a gesture, and once they’d burned down to ash and twisted remnants of metal armor they turned and walked down the streambank again.

An elf in green and brown armor, his pale upper arms bare and delicate vallaslin across his brow like stylized halla horns, crossed the stream to meet them.

“ _Aneth ara_ ,” he greeted Mihris and Mahanon. He smiled apologetically, his eyes flicking down to Mahanon’s burden. “Mahanon, you and the Inquisitor would be welcome in the camp, but –”

“All or none, Loranil,” Mahanon interrupted.

“It’s alright, _lethallan,_ ” Mihris said calmly. She held out the pendant to Loranil. “Please tell Keeper Hawen and Emalien that we finished Valorin’s work. Lindiranae’s talisman was hidden in the shrine to Sylaise, as he suspected. It should go to your clan.”

Loranil took it with careful fingers, his eyes wide. “I’ll bring it to the Keeper. Thank you, Mihris. You didn’t have to.”

“I did.”

“Take her, too,” Mahanon said, holding out the shriveled corpse. “She was the one hiding it from the shems behind a false wall all these centuries. She deserves a spot in Var Bellanaris.”

Distaste crossed Loranil’s face, but he accepted the burden without hesitation. “I’ll see it done.”

Mihris smiled at him gently. “Still want to join the Inquisition?”

Loranil looked down at the ancient corpse in his arms. “Will I have to carry a lot of bodies?”

“More than you’d expect,” Dorian said dryly.

Loranil swallowed hard at that, but he squared his shoulders. “I’ll talk to Keeper Hawen again. I want to help. The People can’t stand apart when all of Thedas is threatened.”

“An admirable sentiment.” Ciri stepped forward, acutely aware of the eyes watching them from across the stream. “We found a glyph that can only be seen by veilfire in the shrine. Mihris and Mahanon said they found two others, one by a collapsed tunnel and another by the old elven baths. Do you know of any more?”

Loranil brightened and pointed awkwardly downstream with his elbow. “The ruins just there – Taven said he found a glyph there last spring. Be careful. I went scouting when we made camp, and the whole place is full of demons. There’s a tear in the Veil letting them through.”

“Thank you for your help,” Ciri said. “If you do decide to join the Inquisition, come to one of the camps. We’d be glad to have you.”

“ _Dareth shiral_ , Inquisitor,” Loranil said as he turned to ford the stream again. “I hope we meet again.”

“Ugh,” Sera groaned quietly. “We don’t need another elfy elf. Three of them’s plenty.”

“Any human looking at you would say that four of us is plenty,” Mahanon said with a shrug, leading the way downstream once more. “Turn your back on your people all you like. You’ll never be human enough for them.”

Sera made a face at the back of his head. “Who was it calling city elves ‘flat ears’ the other day?”

“Force of habit,” Mahanon said. “One I’m trying to correct. I didn’t mean offense.”

“Yeah, well…just don’t do it again, yeah?”

Ciri sighed. She half-expected Solas to chime in with a soft, barbed comment of his own. To her relief, he stayed silent, and the rest of the journey passed quietly.

“Over this way,” Mihris said as she pointed across the stream to a large mound of boulders overgrown with trees and bushes. “I’ve been here before in years past, though I haven’t seen the glyph Loranil spoke of.”

Ciri followed her as they ventured across the stream once more. It was deeper, narrower, the water running faster as it neared the river. She hopped up to the bank with a grimace, her feet icy cold and soaking wet.

The stairs to the ruins led down between large, mossy boulders into darkness. Mihris lit the top of her staff again, and Olgierd summoned flames to his hand. Faint sounds, like wet cloth being dragged over stone, came from ahead, and Ciri drew her sword.

Olgierd led the way, the flame casting exaggerated shadows on the damaged walls that stretched and danced as they descended. The shushing, dragging sounds grew louder. From around Olgierd’s shoulder, Ciri spied a mottled gray arm ending in long claws attached to a hunched back go by on quiet, robed feet, and she nodded to him.

The flames left his hand, and the shade shrieked in rage as it caught fire and burned into nothingness. Another rushed the stairs from a darkened corner of the room, its claws outstretched. Olgierd intercepted it with a hard slash of his saber, and it dissolved into green muck.

He summoned flames to his hand again and looked about the room. “That seems to be the last of them.”

“Then let’s proceed,” Ciri said. “But take care. Loranil mentioned a rift.”

There was another flight of stairs leading deeper into the ruins, dark and oppressive. They went in single file, ducking their heads as roots from above scraped their hair and helmets. A faint, emerald green light shone ahead, and Ciri gripped _Gynvael_ as the sound of grinding glass echoed through the narrow corridor.

The stairs opened into an open-air balcony leading down to a grassy courtyard. One of the staircases to the courtyard had collapsed in the centuries that had passed since the Exalted March, but the other looked intact. The stream rushed by, connecting to the river just beyond. And right above the courtyard, a bright, active rift hung in the air.

Tendrils of light shot out from the rift. Four of them connected with the grass below. Two of them puddled on the balcony. Ciri gestured for Dorian, Solas, and Sera to follow her and raced down the stairs.

Demons emerged from the puddles of green light – a rage demon, two terror demons, and a wraith. She didn’t look back at the balcony to see what Olgierd and the Dalish scouts had to contend with. She lunged at the rage demon as Dorian cast a barrier over her.

It oozed toward her, shedding embers and burning a trail through the grass as it went. She darted to the side and struck out with _Gynvael_ ’s icy blade. The demon’s searing heat pressed against her as it twisted to claw at her armor, roaring in pain. She slipped away from its claws and struck again, hard and fast.

Steam rose from the wound where her blade met its molten body. It lashed out at her once more, but she was too fast, too light on her feet, and pirouetted past its heavy swipe to slice at its other side. It roared a final time and dissolved into a small pool of ichor and embers at her feet.

She took a precious second to glance around the area. Back up on the balcony, Mahanon and Mihris finished off a wraith, while Olgierd cleaved a terror demon across its spindly chest. In the courtyard, Dorian clenched his fist, and the terror demon trapped in an ethereal prison collapsed in on itself with a crunching sound as the bars shrank rapidly.

The rift flared again, shooting out more tendrils of light, and Solas cast another barrier as Sera set another arrow to her bowstring. Then a terror demon leaped at Ciri, and she was on the move again.

Dorian’s spell rushed through Ciri. The terror demon’s leap slowed to a painful crawl. She sped toward it, sword outstretched, and cleaved through it as it descended. One down. She rushed across the courtyard to strike down a sluggish wraith.

When the demons had all been felled, she raised her marked hand to the quiescent rift above. A connection sparked, and she forced the magic through. It raced from her hand to the rift in an eager torrent, a bright rope of magic tying her palm to the Veil. She yanked back, and the rift sealed with a snap.

“Is everyone alright?” she called up to the balcony.

“We’re fine,” Mahanon called back. “Mihris spotted the brazier on the way in. We’ll be down in a moment.”

“We might as well all go light torches and take a look around,” Dorian suggested. He headed back toward the stairs, Solas behind him.

They made a strange sight, seven ghostly green torches bobbing up and down as they peered at the walls of the elven ruins. All of them spread out through the long-abandoned building in search of the elusive glyph.

“Think I see it – wait, no,” Sera said. She snickered. “Just a weird mushroom.”

Mihris shook her head and kept looking.

The search led them back to the grassy courtyard, now scorched and damaged from the fight with the demons. Ciri held her torch up to one of the pillars and heard a faint sound, almost like the tinkle of shattering china at a distance. She raised her voice.

“Mihris, is this what we’re looking for?”

Mihris came over and held her torch up beside Ciri’s. Another beautiful, abstract glyph in pale blue-green came to life beneath the flames, and they both reached out to touch it. The image of two ravens flashed through Ciri’s mind’s eye. One gripped a mirror in its talons. The other held a lifelike heart.

“This is it,” Mihris said distractedly. Her gaze was on something in the far distance, something beyond Dirthavaren.

“Do you know what they mean?” Ciri asked.

“It’s a code,” Mihris said. “A map. To an Elvhen temple to Dirthamen.”

Ciri’s eyebrows rose in curiosity. “Elvhen, not elven?”

“Elvhen,” Mihris confirmed. “I…I think it was forgotten on purpose. Something dark happened there, long before the Long Walk. The glyphs were a warning to stay away.”

“Right, then we should,” Sera said at once. “Don’t mess with magic bad enough to get warning signs put up.”

Ciri could understand the sentiment, but her Witcher sensibilities were itching to go deal with whatever was wrong with the Elvhen temple. And something Mihris had said earlier had piqued her interest. “You said there was something about it that amused Imshael.”

Mihris nodded reluctantly. “He…there’s a secret there, about the Elvhen. I don’t know what it is. But he thought it was funny.”

“I wouldn’t necessarily put stock in what Imshael said,” Dorian said. “Demons are known for their deception. On the other hand, they quite frequently tell the truth if it would be more hurtful or entertaining. If there truly is a secret about the Elvhen there, it might be worth investigating.”

“There’s little we could discover about the Elvhen that I cannot tell you myself,” Solas rebutted. He frowned. “Though I will admit to some curiosity as to what one of the Forbidden Ones would find ‘amusing.’”

“Do you know where the glyphs lead, Mihris?” Ciri asked.

Mihris nodded. “It’s on the coast of the Waking Sea, two weeks’ journey from here. If you get me a map of Orlais I can pinpoint it for you.”

“We have the time,” Ciri said, looking around at the others. “What do the rest of you think?”

“No, _no_ , bad idea,” Sera said. “Elfy elves and secrets and ‘somethin’ dark’ doesn’t sound good. They lost it on purpose. Let’s just forget it, yeah?”

“We deserve to know about our ancestors,” Mahanon argued. “And the seven of us can handle whatever darkness overtook the temple.”

“You have my answer,” Solas said simply.

“I’m curious,” Dorian admitted. “If there is time, I’d like to see this temple for myself.”

“It’s a decision best left to our elven friends,” Olgierd said, “though if we are venturing into danger, I’ll guard your back.”

Ciri nodded. “Back to camp, then. We leave for the temple in the morning.”

A mix of trepidation and excitement filled her as they headed back out of the ruins. Finally, she had something close to Witcher's work awaiting her. But at the back of her mind, she remembered another powerful being who ruined lives and bartered favors, and she wondered what sort of thing Imshael might find amusing in the ruins of a fallen empire.


	56. Ruins and Old Secrets

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mihris leads them to the forgotten temple of Dirthamen, which provides more questions than answers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> beta-read by brightspot149. Thank you!

“Here it is,” Mihris called out quietly as she drew to a stop ahead of them.

Ciri squinted at the dark smudge between the rocks. The entrance to the temple of Dirthamen was almost invisible in the afternoon shade. Dark trees held a still, oppressive gloom, and the air was quiet, as if even the birds didn’t wish to break the silence. Something rustled in the branches up above, and she glanced up to see ravens peering down at their small group.

They’d been traveling for two weeks, first a long ride to the Waking Sea, then a short boat trip across to Val Chevin. They were three days out from that city, still hugging the coast. Mihris led them unerringly, certain of the path.

Sera shuddered. “Looks creepy.”

“We anticipated something unpleasant,” Ciri said. “We’re forewarned, which is half the battle already.”

“Right,” Sera said skeptically. “‘Somethin’ dark.’ Nice and specific, real helpful.”

“A vague warning is better than no warning at all,” Olgierd said.

Mahanon cleared his throat and nodded at the half-hidden entrance. “We can stand around arguing, or we can go in. Daylight is wasting.”

“An excellent point,” Dorian agreed. “But, and bear with me, is it safe to leave the horses out here?”

The ravens rustled their wings above their heads again, and a sudden breeze kicked up the fallen leaves around the horses’ hooves.

“Probably not,” Ciri said with another glance upward. “It would be best if one of us stayed behind –”

“Me,” Sera interrupted. “You go do elfy demon stuff. I’ll keep the horses safe.” She grimaced. “Just don’t take too long. I don’t want to have to come lookin’ for you.”

“We’ll come back soon,” Ciri promised.

They dismounted beneath a particularly large, gnarled oak tree, and Mahanon retrieved stakes and rope from his saddlebags to knock together a makeshift picket line. With the horses secured, the six of them set off into the temple, leaving Sera behind.

Just beyond the inconspicuous entrance, the stairs leading down were in remarkably good condition for a several-thousand-year-old temple. The walls closed in on them, dark and oppressive. At the bottom of the staircase, a lone brazier stood affixed to the wall, its tinder long gone.

Mahanon pulled tufts of fur and bits of wood shavings from his belt pouch. As he went to set them in the brazier, Mihris caught his wrist.

“There’s no need to waste your tinder, _lethallan_ ,” Mihris said softly. White light emanated from the top of her staff. “I can light the way for us.”

“Even better,” Mahanon said. “Lead on.”

They passed beneath a low archway into the first room of the temple. Just beyond the opening, the stone floor was covered in damp moss, and the walls were slick and shiny with water. Twenty-five feet from the stairs, the floor dropped off, and water, dark and still, covered the ground below.

Solas probed its depth with the end of his staff. “It’s no more than a few inches deep,” he said as he pulled his staff back. “Though that may change as we go on. Stay alert.”

“Is there anything… _in_ it?” Dorian asked.

“Stay alert,” Solas repeated with a hint of amusement.

Dorian sighed and shook his head.

Mihris led the way, her soft white light reflecting off the dark water as they splashed through it. They passed through another low archway, and Ciri looked around in interest. The trees they’d ridden beneath up above had broken through with their roots down below, adding a strange wildness to the area. Pale ferns grew along the edges of the walls, the stones they hugged rough with moss and lichens.

“What’s that up ahead?” Mahanon asked quietly.

Ciri looked in the direction he pointed. It was too dark to make out, but it seemed to be a statue of some sort, large and looming in the distance. An animal, she guessed, judging by the vague shape and position. They headed toward it, tiny waves bouncing away as they walked through the flooded chamber.

Mihris raised her lit staff as they approached the base of the statue, and Mahanon frowned.

“This is an insult,” he said, crossing his arms. “Why would the Dread Wolf have a place of honor in the Keeper of Secrets’ sanctum?”

Solas’ lips thinned, and he opened his mouth to say something. Mihris beat him to it.

“Peace, _lethallan._ Fen'Harel was a friend to the gods before he betrayed them. This temple is old, likely older than that betrayal. Dirthamen honors his friend. It wasn't an insult at the time."

Ciri looked up at the statue of Fen’Harel. The wolf rested peacefully on all fours, its tail wrapped around its back legs and its face turned to the side to face them, staring sightlessly. It was overgrown with vines and ferns. Nestled between its front and back paws was a waist-high, blank stone marker.

She frowned and ran her hand over the marker. “There must be something here. Does anyone see a brazier nearby?”

Olgierd summoned fire to his hand and ventured off, Mahanon at his back. Dorian and Solas went toward the other side of the chamber. Ciri waited with Mihris by the vine-covered wolf statue as seconds crept into minutes. At last, a flare of pale, blue-green light came from Dorian’s side of the chamber.

“Dorian and Solas found it,” Ciri called out softly, pitching her voice to carry down the silent halls. “Olgierd? Mahanon? Come back.”

“On our way,” Olgierd called back.

Solas and Dorian arrived with the veilfire torch just as Olgierd and Mahanon returned. Solas held it out to the stone marker, and a complex, twisting glyph appeared in its light. Ciri brushed her fingers across it and paused at the hushed whisper that echoed through her mind.

_“We few whisper here where shadow dwells.  
Some words remain unuttered.  
Truths are pushed down, down  
Where they shall never arise again.”_

“Solas, Mihris,” she said quietly, pulling her hand back, “what do you make of this?”

Solas touched the glyph and frowned. “The secrets of this temple have remained unspoken for too long. They wish to be known.”

“You have the right of it,” Mihris agreed. “We’d do well to shine a light on whatever happened here.”

“And that’s what we’ll do,” Ciri said. “Come on. I think I see something glowing down this way.”

They followed the faint green gleam down the wet hall and into another chamber. There, set into a recessed arch in the wall, the green light intensified, and Ciri narrowed her eyes at its source. A statue of a hooded elf bearing a platter stood beneath the arch, and on the platter, a severed elven head – an Elvhen head? – gave off the bright glow of magic. The elf’s features hadn’t even begun to decay despite having been dead for thousands of years.

She looked it over with a small shudder. The head’s eye sockets were empty, and its ears had been cut off with a sharp blade right where they met the skull. The cheekbones were quite prominent, and the jaw was long and strong. And the hooded statues looked similar to the sorts of statues one might find in old elven ruins on the Continent.

“ _Fenhedis_ ,” Mahanon swore quietly, eyeing the head with unease. “What foul things did our ancestors do in this place?”

“Do any of you understand this magic?” Ciri asked.

Dorian shook his head. “A Mortalitasi summons spirits into corpses or undoes possession of the dead. Despite the stigma outside of Nevarra, it’s a fairly benign field of magic. This? This is death magic, and well beyond me.”

“I’ve not seen anything like it before in my life,” Olgierd said.

“Mihris?” Ciri asked.

Mihris looked hesitant. “I don’t know. What I…learned…from Imshael isn’t always so easy to understand. This is part of what amused him, that much I’m sure of.”

“I know of this magic,” Solas said. “I have seen it in the Fade. It is a brutal punishment reserved for the worst criminals of Elvhenan, meant to keep the condemned’s consciousness from completely fading.” He nodded to the glowing, severed head. “He no longer thinks, but some part of him is still present even now.”

“That’s despicable,” Ciri said flatly.

“It is.” Solas stepped toward the statue and lifted the head from the platter, and a hoarse screech echoed through the temple.

Ciri whirled to see a half-dozen undead appear out of nowhere, clutching swords and advancing on them with empty eyes.

Dorian threw a barrier over them as Olgierd flung flames at the nearest pair of skeletons. Ciri drew _Gynvael_ and lunged at the leftmost corpse, lashing out with her blade. Arrows and lightning flew past her. Fire roared. The undead fell.

Solas, still holding the head in one hand and his staff in the other, continued as if there had been no interruption. “There will be more pieces of this priest elsewhere in the temple. I suspect we’ll have to unite the pieces to break the spell that lies over this place.” He frowned. “The ‘Head of Misery’ – what a pleasant thought to make intrude into someone’s mind.”

Mahanon grimaced but handed him a length of thin, sturdy rope, and Solas bound the head tightly and secured it to his belt.

“How do you know he’s a priest?” Ciri asked.

“Inference,” Solas said as they turned to leave the chamber. “It would have to be someone with ties to the temple. Someone Dirthamen’s priests felt betrayed the god or committed blasphemy.”

“I always imagined our ancestors being…” Mihris trailed off. “Enlightened. Better than us. All the stories of Arlathan’s crystal palaces in the trees, and the wisdom the Elvhen would gain through immortality… This sort of death is base cruelty.”

Solas was quiet for several seconds. When he spoke, there was an undercurrent of tension in his voice. “Do you suggest that the Dalish are better? Most of the clans can’t even read their own language. Some hunt humans for sport. Your people claim to be the rightful heirs to the Elvhen legacy, yet most of you are insular, distrustful nomads who wander the land telling tales of the past and dreaming of the future, content to ignore that your present is hard and unpleasant.”

“Solas!” Ciri snapped.

“No,” Mihris said softly. “I don’t believe the Dalish are better than our ancestors. I just thought our ancestors were better than this.”

Ciri caught Solas’ eye and shook her head at him in disappointment. “That was unfair of you.”

 _Unfair, and more unkind than usual_.

Solas paused, then sighed slightly. “It was. _Ir abelas, da’len_. I am…defensive…of the Elvhen. But you are correct. This is base cruelty, regardless of the priest's crimes. No people are without flaws, and the Elvhen were no exception."

“ _Ma’lanastan_ ,” Mihris said, forgiving him with a gentle nod.

The glowing head’s empty sockets stared blankly out as they walked back down the flooded hall, and Ciri suppressed a shiver. It really did look eerily like one of the Aen Elle, almost. Or –

She glanced up at Solas.

Prominent cheekbones and a long, strong jaw.

She looked away before he noticed her scrutiny. His ancestor's blood was strong in him. Some tiny part of her whispered that she should remember that, take note of it, and she did, tucking her observation away for later.

It was likely nothing worth noting. She was hundreds of years removed from Lara Dorren, and yet she looked remarkably like her. Heritance was odd like that sometimes.

A flowing sheet of water blocked their path at the end of the hall, and Mihris swept the light of her staff around in search of a solution.

“There,” Olgierd said, striding to a wall where a lever was mostly hidden by the shadows.

He hauled down on it, and it gave way with a grinding of rust and a protesting of gears. The water ahead slowed to a trickle, then stopped. Just beyond the archway, another gleam of green light shone.

Dorian raised the veilfire torch as they crossed the threshold into the next chamber. Another blank stone marker sat just to the side of the entrance, and the faint sound of fine china shattering rang through the air as another glyph formed on its surface. He reached out to touch it, then drew back, looking mildly disturbed.

“I think they were recording their final days,” he murmured. “Poor people. So much confusion and loss.”

Ciri, Mihris, Mahanon, and Solas were quick to follow suit, and a ghostly voice whispered in Ciri’s head, forlorn and lost.

_“Dirthamen is gone, he said.  
Our Highest One brings to us this gravest news.  
What shall we do? Where shall we go?  
What of the old secrets that burn within our hearts?”_

“‘Dirthamen is gone,’” Mihris echoed. “This must have been right after Fen’Harel’s betrayal, when he locked the Creators and the Forgotten Ones away in the Fade and the Void. To think these priests once stood in the presence of the Keeper of Secrets – to think they felt His loss personally…”

“No doubt it amused the Dread Wolf to sow such chaos,” Mahanon scoffed, turning from the glyph. “Legend says he spent centuries after his great trick in a far corner of the world, hugging himself and giggling madly in glee.”

Solas’ shoulders stiffened almost imperceptibly, and he said, a sharp edge to his voice, “It is fascinating that Fen’Harel is both a cackling madman and a cunning mastermind in your fables. I suppose the contradiction does not bother you. He is whatever your stories need him to be.”

Mahanon opened his mouth to retort, and Mihris caught his arm and shook her head.

“I understand you see different versions of our myths in the Fade,” she said, looking at him evenly. “What knowledge do you have of Fen’Harel that the Dalish don’t? What does the Fade show him to be?”

Solas paused, and Ciri’s eyes dropped from his face to the cord around his neck. For the first time since meeting him, his odd amulet suddenly took on new and weighty meaning.

A canine jawbone, old and darkened with time.

Had Fen’Harel had worshipers back in the days of Arlathan? Adherents? Followers?

Had it once belonged to Solas’ ancestor?

She looked back up at his face quickly and saw that he was still gathering his thoughts. At last he spoke. He sounded tired and faintly bitter. “Perhaps he was both.”

“Or neither,” Ciri offered, hoping to erase the expression on his face.

“Perhaps,” Solas said again. His eyes softened as they met hers.

They crossed the room to examine the hooded statue and the platter with the gleaming green body part. Ciri wrinkled her nose when she saw what lay there. A tongue cut out at the root, still faintly moist thousands of years later. For a long moment, no one reached for it. Then Dorian sighed and extended a hand.

Another hoarse, chilling scream echoed through the temple’s halls. Ciri drew _Gynvael_ again and turned to face the undead that rose around them. As fire and lightning flew once more, and she lunged forward, sword extended, a thought went through her mind.

This temple was exposing more secrets than just its own.

* * *

“Is everyone alright?” Ciri asked.

They stood in the bowels of the temple’s sanctuary, the very heart of the abandoned building. Water lapped around their ankles, and the only light came from Mihris’ staff and the two ancient torches on the walkway up above. A magically sealed door on the far end of the chamber stood waiting, still guarding its secrets after all these many years.

“We’re as well as can be expected,” Olgierd replied.

They were tired and ragged, but potions and spells had healed the injuries they’d accumulated over the past two hours. The undead hadn’t been the only trouble they’d faced. Some of the body parts had summoned arcane horrors, and those had made for grueling fights. Luckily, Solas had cast the spell to cover Ciri and Olgierd’s blades in flames, and _Gynvael_ had been of more use against the demons this time.

All their fighting and exploring had allowed them to uncover the whole sad, sordid tale. In the days immediately after their gods’ disappearance, Dirthamen’s high priest – the Highest One – intended to seal himself and the rest of the temple’s priests in to be entombed alive in order to preserve the secrets they kept. The priests, angered and frightened at their god’s loss, killed the Highest One and abandoned the temple.

Ciri understood the priests’ fear and anger. But it had been a cruel, gruesome death, and its effects had tainted the temple for thousands of years.

Perhaps that had been the point. No one had breached its inner sanctum since. An extreme way of achieving the Highest One’s ends, but he got his way. Their secrets had been kept.

She looked at the six short, unadorned altars that stood empty in the shallow water, then at the others.

“I suspect we’re supposed to put the Highest One’s pieces here,” she said. “And then…Solas? Do you know?”

“And then his essence will reform into whatever it’s been becoming over the last several thousand years,” Solas told them. “Something powerful – and dangerous. Once we defeat it, the temple will be safe.”

“And we’ll be able to get through that door,” Mihris said with a nod to the door in question.

“Most likely,” Solas agreed.

Ciri pulled the ears from her belt pouch and set them on the nearest altar. _‘The Ears of Unheeding,’_ the magic had whispered. The green magic flared brightly and disappeared into the altar. Solas followed suit with the mutilated Head of Misery, as did Dorian with the Tongue of Secrets. The Heart of Despondency, the Eyes of Sorrow, and the Hands of Torment all followed.

A rushing, bubbling noise came from behind them, and she turned to see a wildly churning mass of green energy swirling around an Elvhen device of some sort. It appeared remarkably similar to the ones she’d been activating all across Thedas – the ones meant to strengthen the Veil.

“I believe merely touching it will release the Highest One,” Solas said, “in whatever form he now takes.”

She drew _Gynvael_ and squared her shoulders. Her companions spread out around the seething mass of green, and a barrier settled across her. Her blade lit with fire. She approached the artifact cautiously and extended her marked hand.

The green energy pulsed, and a despair demon flew from the artifact like an arrow from a bow, shedding ice crystals in its wake. It screeched and dove at Olgierd, who lashed out with his fiery blade. It recoiled and fled, flying across the chamber toward Solas.

The water grew cold, then icy, as the temperature plummeted. Ciri could see her breath before her in faint plumes of vapor. Her feet grew numb in her boots. Fire crackled and roared through the air, chasing the Highest One this way and that.

It sped toward her, and she struck out with _Gynvael_. It screeched in pain as her sword sliced into its body. She flinched and spun away as frost encrusted her armor.

It followed, breathing on her again. Tiny shards of ice pelted the back of her head and neck as she ducked and dodged. She rolled out of the way into the half-frozen water and came up swinging, her sword still lit.

The Highest One let out a final scream, its body stiffening, and fell into the water, dissolving into nothing but ichor and ice crystals.

Ciri shivered uncontrollably as she turned away and sheathed her sword. She’d need to get dry and warm soon, or chill would set in. The terrain hadn’t favored them at all.

Mihris reached Ciri first, with Olgierd and Solas right behind her. The young elf raised her staff and waited for Ciri’s nod of permission. A wave of soft heat passed through her from her head to her toes, and she swayed in relief.

“I used to be a healer,” Mihris said quietly. “Before everything. It’s still what I’m best at.”

“I feel better than I did before we came here,” Ciri told her with an encouraging smile. “Thank you.”

Mihris nodded, and Olgierd gave her a careful once-over.

“I’m fine,” she assured him.

“Can’t have you dying from something as ignoble as a sniffle,” he gently teased her.

“The indignity,” she said dryly. “Come on. Let’s see if killing the Highest One – again – unsealed that door.”

“I believe it did,” Solas said. “The energy in the temple feels different. Can you sense it?”

Ciri stopped and tilted her head back, ignoring the rustling and murmuring of her companions. “I can,” she said after a long moment. The air felt ever so slightly less oppressive.

They splashed across the flooded floor to the door at the far end of the chamber. Ciri set her hand on the handle, and a light shock, like static, went through her palm. Then, with a faint click, the tumblers within disengaged.

"Let's see what secrets were worth all of this," she said and pushed the door open.

The hinges squealed in protest, but a hard shove made them cooperate. Mihris shone her light on the room’s contents as they filed in, and Ciri looked about in interest.

It was plain. Undecorated. No art or statuary to mark the worship of their god of secrets. The walls and floor were bare, and the two chests in the corner were simple.

But in the center of the room stood a plinth bearing a small stone tablet, and that, Ciri suspected, was what all the fuss had been about.

Solas headed directly for it, and then paused as he stared down at the tablet. A strange look slowly crept across his face. Bewilderment, frustration – utter disbelief.

“I cannot read this.”

Mihris joined him. “That isn’t Elven,” she said, looking between the tablet and Solas. “I think…I think this is the secret that amused Imshael.”

Ciri came to stand at Solas' shoulder, and she looked down at the small tablet. One glance and she immediately had to control her expression.

She couldn’t read it, either. Not fully. But some of the words had similar roots to Laith aen Undod, and to Ellylon.

_“Secret.”_

_“Magic.”_

_“Empire.”_

_“Die.”_

She looked up at Solas once again. Smaller ears. Prominent cheekbones. A long, strong jaw.

And now, a tablet covered in writing from what was assuredly a lost branch of the Aen Undod, hidden away in an Elvhen temple.

The Aen Elle were long-lived, but not immortal. Did this tablet explain how the elves of the Aen Undod became the Elvhen of Thedas?

Why had they hidden it? Why forget their origins?

“We’ll take it back to Skyhold,” Ciri said when she realized she’d been quiet for too long. “Solas, I’m sure you know of spirits in the Fade you can ask for help.”

“Several,” Solas confirmed. “One of my oldest friends, a spirit of wisdom, may be of great help.”

“This is the Dalish’s legacy,” Mahanon protested. “We should be sending it to Keeper Istimaethoriel in Wycome.”

“I don’t see any reason why we wouldn’t eventually do that,” Ciri said, turning away from the plinth to placate him. “But Solas’ Fade resources are invaluable, and we can bring scholars to the Inquisition that aren’t available to the Dalish.”

“Swear it,” Mahanon demanded. “Swear the tablet goes to my clan when we get answers.”

“I swear, Mahanon.”

Solas frowned briefly at that but didn’t speak up to disagree. Ciri carefully lifted the stone tablet from its place on the plinth and handed it to Solas, who took it from her gently and tucked it away in his pack.

Olgierd pried open the lid to one of the chests and let out a soft noise as he peered inside. “Whatever secrets they held, I fear they’re lost for good.”

Ciri walked over and looked over his shoulder to see crumbled fragments of parchment, long broken down by time. “I suppose the Highest One would be pleased that most of their secrets will remain undiscovered.”

“But not their greatest,” Solas said. His face was fierce with determination.

“If that’s the end of it, then we should get back to Sera,” Dorian suggested. “She’s probably wondering if she needs to come in after us.”

“I hope nothing gave her trouble out there.” Ciri gave the room one more careful look over, then nodded to herself. “Let’s get out of here. It’s past time we returned.”

As they began to leave, Ciri watched as Solas’ hand strayed to his pack. She had a feeling he’d attempt to reach out to his spirit friend tonight, as soon as they made camp.

He wasn’t alone in that. If the shadowy figure who dropped cryptic hints in her dreams didn’t make an appearance tonight, she’d be quite annoyed. And they’d better have answers for her, for once.

* * *

Ciri found herself walking up a sloping cliff through thick, soupy fog. No matter how long she walked, the edge of the cliff never got any closer, and the fog never got any thinner. Avallac’h strode steadily at her side.

Ciri looked at his familiar face and found herself irritated. She knew it was a deception; she’d known it all along. But never had it bothered her quite so much before. He raised an eyebrow at her, as if aware of her poor humor, and kept his silence.

“The elves aren’t native to this world,” she said at last.

“As I said before, _Zireael_ ,” he said. “They hid their origins. They forgot where they came from. Purposefully, as you’ve discovered.”

“So this world –”

“It belonged to the spirits,” he said. “To the great titans of the earth. Then the elves came, so foreign and magical, and they were made welcome.”

“How did they go from welcome new arrivals to the Elvhen?”

“A choice was made,” Avallac’h told her. “One, and then another, and then another, choice upon choice upon choice, pebbles creating an avalanche.”

The fog slowly began to dissipate around them. Ciri could just barely make out the cliff’s edge ahead of them.

“Why doesn’t So – my tutor know about this?” she asked. “Wouldn’t his ancestor have told him?”

Avallac’h gave her a small, condescending smile that had her wondering what she had missed. “Ah, yes. Your _harellan_ ’s ancestor. Such a person would be thousands of years old, but still quite young compared to the ones who would be entrusted with such a secret. A spry youth compared to the likes of Elgar’nan or Dirthamen.”

“You’re infuriating, you know,” Ciri muttered.

“Am I?” His condescending smile only deepened. “Alas for me. My self-esteem rises and falls on your good opinion.”

Ciri scoffed and looked away. “If you’re giving up the enigmatic spirit pretense entirely, can I at least have your name now?”

“That information isn’t safe to share,” Avallac’h said. “Some names echo through the Fade and draw unwanted attention.”

“Like my tutor’s.”

“Precisely like.”

Ciri fell silent, staring ahead at the approaching cliff’s edge. “I don’t like lying to him,” she said after a long moment. “I know he’s lying to me – about his origins, about his intentions, likely about quite a bit more – but I can’t help feeling like I’m only making things worse.”

“Possibly,” Avallac’h said. “Or possibly you’re doing the only thing you can to keep the wind blowing in your favor. Would he ever have had a change of heart had he not believed you shared a common origin?”

“No,” Ciri acknowledged reluctantly. “But this tablet –”

“Let him uncover it himself. It may prove more helpful to your cause than you believe.”

Just as reluctantly, Ciri nodded. A thought from earlier came to her, and she looked up at her dream companion’s stolen face. “Why do the Dalish tales of Fen’Harel bother him so deeply?”

“Do they?” He sounded deeply amused. Almost vindictively so.

“Was his ancestor one of Fen’Harel’s followers?” she asked. “He wears a canine jawbone – is that some sort of talisman?”

Avallac’h reached out and pressed a finger to her lips. “Again, _Zireael_. Some names echo. And not all the ‘gods’ are sealed away.”

They reached the edge of the cliff and looked down, and Ciri stifled a gasp. The canyon below ran red with a river of blood. As she watched, bodies floated to the surface. One rolled over, revealing small, delicately pointed ears.

“What happened here?” she demanded. “Who did this?”

“I told you when we first met, _Zireael_ ,” Avallac’h said, staring down with an unreadable expression. “The Elvhen dreamed of glory. The spirits showed them wonders.”

“ _Lethallin!”_ Solas’ voice rang out through the air, urgent and stressed. “ _Ciri, wake. Please!”_

With a final uneasy look down into the bloody canyon below, Ciri wrenched herself from sleep and opened her eyes to see Solas looming over her bedroll.

“I’m awake,” she yawned. “What is it?”

Solas sat back on his heels, his hands gripping his knees. “I was speaking to Wisdom about the tablet when something disturbed our conversation. A summoning ritual dragged my friend from the Fade right before my eyes.”

Ciri sat up and blinked the last of her slumber away. “What can we do?”

“Find them,” Solas said intently. His eyes burned with anger. “And _get them back_.”


	57. Pride and Wisdom

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> At Solas' news, they rush back to Dirthavaren only to learn that the worst has happened.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> beta-read by brightspot149. Thank you!

Retracing their journey back to Dirthavaren had been a tense, rushed affair. Ciri could see how much it pained Solas not to race ahead, not to press his mount and leave them behind. Each night that he searched the Fade and found no trace of Wisdom left him ever more worried and withdrawn, and in turn, her worry for him grew as well. His anxiety was infectious, hanging over them like a dark cloud as they traveled.

They left their tired horses at the forward camp with a brief word of greeting for Scout Belette. Ciri fell in behind Solas as he set the pace with a ground-eating lope, as sure of his destination as Mihris had been. He led them toward the stream, then alongside it, making their way past the Dalish camp and to the tall outcropping of rocks ahead.

A pained, furious roar broke the calm of Dirthavaren’s air.

“No,” Solas breathed, a quiet, despairing protest. He broke into a run.

Ciri struggled to keep up with him as he rounded the outcropping and almost stumbled into his back as he came to an abrupt halt.

“ _My friend_.”

She took in the cause of his distress at once. A massive pride demon thrashed and roared within a circle of bluish-white stalagmites near the river running perpendicular to the stream. The stalagmite pillars looked unnatural to her eyes, clearly magical in nature. The pride demon lashed out at one and stumbled back as light flared, and the scent of ozone scorched her nose.

“Oh, Solas.” She reached out and set her hand on his arm gently. The muscles tensed beneath her fingers, but she didn’t withdraw. “What happened to your friend?”

“Wisdom only becomes Pride when their purpose is perverted,” he told her with a terrible blankness to his voice. “Something, or someone, did this to my friend. What did they do, what did they do?”

On Solas’ other side, Olgierd inclined his head at three humans approaching them warily, all of them dressed in ragged, grubby mage robes and holding staves. “Someone like those three, perhaps?”

The tense muscles beneath Ciri’s hand turned to iron, and Solas’ face grew stormy. “Let us ask them.”

The mage in the lead broke off from the trio to come closer. He was a pale, doughy man with a slackness to his cheeks that spoke of weeks, perhaps months, of inadequate meals, and he brightened as he looked from Solas to Dorian to Mihris. “Mages? Then you’re not with those Freemen bandits. Do you have any lyrium? We’ve been trying to get that demon under control for ages.”

“You _summoned_ that demon!” Solas retorted. “But they were a spirit of wisdom at the time! You made them kill! Twisted them against their purpose!”

The mage took a half-step back, raising his hand at the furious onslaught of words. “I understand how it might be confusing to someone who hasn’t studied demons, but after you help us –”

“We’re not here to help _you._ ” Solas’ voice was hard and scornful.

“We came to free a captive,” Ciri said, backing him to the hilt. She nodded over the mage’s shoulder. “ _That_ captive.”

“Are you _mad_?” the mage sputtered. “You can’t set that thing free – it’s killed six of us! There’s only three of us left!”

“Then you shouldn’t have summoned them in the first place.” Solas turned away dismissively and met Ciri’s eyes with an intensity that caught her breath for just a moment. “ _Lethallin._ If we break the _elgar’arla_ , we break the binding on Wisdom. With no orders to fight, and no commands to kill, there won’t be any conflict with their nature. They will return to themself."

“What? No! That binding is the only thing keeping it from killing us!” the mage cried. “Whatever it was before, it’s a monster now!”

“Wrong,” Solas spat.

“Listen to me!” the mage insisted. “I am the foremost expert on demons from the Kirkwall Circle –”

“I’ll tell you this plainly, so you might come to terms with it in your own time,” Olgierd said evenly. “You’re a short-sighted, ignorant fool with an overinflated view of your skills and importance. You’ve ventured into a puddle and imagined you found an ocean. If Solas says it can be done, it can be done. Move aside, mage, or I’ll move you.”

Stunned into offended silence, the mage moved out of the way. At Ciri’s side, she saw Solas reach up and squeeze Olgierd’s shoulder in wordless gratitude, then lead the way over to the binding circle.

“Keeper Thelhen used an _elgar’arla_ to bind Imshael,” Mihris told them, her voice barely audible beneath Wisdom’s roars. “Only one pillar needed to be broken for him to escape, but then, he was incredibly powerful. A Forbidden One.”

Solas nodded. “We will likely need to break all of them.”

“Sure that tit isn’t right about breakin’ the circle?” Sera asked warily. “Since when do we help demons and not people? Even if the people are idiots?”

“Since that ‘demon’ is my friend,” Solas said. “I am certain it will work. Please, Sera. For once, just believe me.”

Her face screwed up in displeasure, but she nodded in reluctant agreement. “Yeah, fine. But if it all goes to shite, I get to say I told you so.”

Olgierd eyed the pacing, raging pride demon with a look in his eyes that Ciri couldn’t quite interpret, and he turned to Solas. “Have you any spells to crack stone or earth? To hasten their destruction?”

“I do.”

They spread out around the _elgar’arla_ , each choosing a pillar. Solas drew his staff and swept it before him, then slammed the butt into the ground. Shockwaves rippled beneath their feet, and Ciri shifted with them, almost but never quite unbalanced. The pillars cracked, deep fissures running up their lengths.

Ciri unsheathed _Gynvael_ and smashed at a fissure with the pommel, again and again. It splintered, then fell apart in great chunks, magic fizzing and popping as her pillar broke. Wisdom roared and stomped toward her.

She darted away to help Mahanon, who was kicking at his pillar. She lent her own foot to his effort, and together they toppled his stalagmite and raced to Dorian.

One by one, the pillars fell, each one breaking apart with a hiss and pop of lightning. Then, at last, the sixth and final pillar broke, and Wisdom collapsed to one armored knee in the center of the destroyed _elgar’arla_.

“Please,” Solas whispered. “Please, my friend.”

A shiver of magic, a whisper of a spell breaking, and the great, spiked form took a heaving breath in, and on the exhale, shrank into a small, feminine body. They were black from head to toe, with just a hint of green tinting their skin and clothing, and as they looked up, Ciri saw that their eyes were twin, fiery pits of emerald.

Solas rushed over to kneel before Wisdom, Ciri and Olgierd hard on his heels.

“ _Lethallin, ir abelas_ ,” he said gently.

Wisdom raised a weak hand to Solas’ cheek. “ _Tel abelas. Enasal. Ir tel’him. Ma melava halani. Mala suledin nadas. Ma ghilana mir din’an._ ”

A look of pure heartbreak came over Solas’ face, and he reached out to Wisdom.

“Wait!” Ciri interrupted. “Can’t we save them?” She met Wisdom’s burning emerald eyes. “Can’t we save you?”

She flexed her marked hand. She could tear the Veil again if it would help get Wisdom back to the Fade safely. The damage it would do to her wouldn’t be insignificant, but she could do it.

Wisdom shook their head slowly and switched to Common. “The struggle against the binding took too much from me, little Swallow. I am fading. Allow my friend to make it a peaceful end.”

Olgierd knelt at Solas' side and extended a scarred hand to Wisdom. "I may be able to help if you'll allow it."

Their burning eyes examined him, and they set their frail black hand in his. “Your path to wisdom was a painful one,” they said softly. “But you speak truly. I can endure a while longer. You may try.”

He patted their hand and withdrew, getting back to his feet. Ciri watched as he looked around at the stony, broken ground with sharp eyes, then turned to Solas.

“I’ll need to borrow your staff for a moment,” he said. “To draw a circle.”

Solas stiffened. “My friend has had enough of bindings and summonings.”

Olgierd set his hand on Solas’ shoulder as Solas had done to him earlier and spoke quietly. “Solas. Trust that I’ll not harm them. This is neither summoning nor binding, I promise you.”

Solas gave him a long, evaluating look, much like Wisdom had, and eventually nodded in reluctant agreement. “Very well.”

With Solas’ staff in hand, Olgierd went to the flattest, least rocky area within the broken _elgar’arla_ and began to draw a summoning circle with smooth, winding lines and small dashes. He dragged the butt of the staff through the soil, digging a furrow as he went. He stopped the outer circle with six inches left to finish, then walked ten paces away to trace a pentagram.

Ciri's gaze went back to Wisdom. The ailing spirit had fallen to both knees in the time it had taken to draw the circles, and they had slowly begun to curl in on themself as if their very existence was painful.

Olgierd came back and passed Solas his staff before kneeling beside Wisdom. “May I?” he asked, reaching out to them with both arms.

“Yes,” they whispered.

He scooped them up into a gentle bridal carry, their insubstantial form almost wafting through his arms, and strode to the nearly finished summoning circle with Solas and Ciri on his heels. With a delicacy and tenderness that would have surprised Ciri months ago, he set Wisdom down in the center of the circle and drew the last six inches with the tip of his boot.

“What comes next?” Solas asked, impatience barely masking his anxiety.

“Now I kneel in that circle,” Olgierd said with a nod to the pentagram, “and open a connection between myself and Wisdom. I’ll give them magic until they’re strong enough to sustain themself, then break it.”

Solas pressed his lips together and gave a jerky nod, and Olgierd settled inside the pentagram. Ciri stood at Solas’ side and set her hand on his shoulder, just where Olgierd’s hand had been. He stiffened, then relaxed slightly, his own long, graceful hand coming up to cover hers.

Olgierd closed his eyes and breathed evenly, his hands on his knees. Then, far less dramatically than he had in the mages’ ritual room, he raised his hands and began chanting. Softly this time – the words were no less harsh or guttural, but his tone was kind, even beseeching. A light wind stirred around the edges of the pentagram.

Wisdom inhaled sharply, their back straightening. Their face went slack with relief, and they gingerly pressed their hand to the center of their chest. Tiny black flakes began to fall from their robe, slowly at first, then in a sootlike flurry, revealing a deep green color hidden beneath, shot through with spiraling jet-black lines.

An unseen wind ruffled their short black hair, and they smiled faintly as their black skin took on a slight green glow.

“Enough,” Wisdom called to Olgierd softly. “I am…I am whole enough.”

Olgierd stopped chanting and sat back on his heels, lowering his hands to his knees again and opening his eyes.

Wisdom rose to their feet as Solas broke away from Ciri and hurried to the summoning circle.

“ _Lethallin_ ,” he breathed, disbelief and fragile joy written across his face.

“ _Lethallan_ ,” they replied, reaching for him with a dark hand. Their small smile grew. “We will not have to say a permanent farewell after all.”

“ _Niran_ ,” Solas said simply, reaching back across the summoning circle’s lines to grasp their fingers.

They traced the contours and planes of his face with their free hand, unable to press past the outer line of the summoning circle. “Be kinder to yourself, _lethallan_. You are wise, yes. But do not mistake your certainty for wisdom as well. Pride has ever been your greatest flaw.”

“I am unmoored, my friend.” Solas’ voice was a bare whisper Ciri could hardly hear. “What certainty is there when I would have ended your life, and another saved it?”

“You are not all-knowing. You never have been.”

“This much I know to be true.”

Wisdom sighed and squeezed Solas’ hand. “The physical world is hard and painful, my friend. I cannot linger here. Let me return to the Fade, and I will see you in your dreams.”

“ _Ma nuvenin_.”

Wisdom turned their fiery emerald eyes to Olgierd as Solas withdrew his hand and took a step back. “You have my thanks, brother-of-Adventure, friend-of-Compassion. I see the path that you walked to get here. I honor you for the choices that led you to wisdom.”

“All my choices?” Olgierd asked. He sounded exhausted.

“Every choice is a lesson. Every lesson leads to more choices. Your choices brought you pain, but also wisdom, in the end.” They cocked their head at him. “And kindness. Would you take that back?”

Olgierd gave a tired shake of his head. “My path hurt too many people along the way for me to not regret it. But I don’t regret where it led me in the end. And regardless, a man can’t un-walk a path. It’s not a question I can answer fairly.”

“And you prove your wisdom,” Wisdom said kindly. “Send me back to the Fade, brother-of-Adventure. I have lingered too long already.”

Olgierd extended a hand toward Wisdom and muttered beneath his breath, and Wisdom disappeared from the circle.

“ _Dareth shiral_ ,” Solas said to the empty circle, a faint smile on his face.

Olgierd rose to his feet with painful slowness and almost staggered over. Ciri rushed to his side and tucked herself beneath his arm to catch his weight.

“That took too much out of you,” she scolded him quietly.

“Goetia isn’t meant to be used that way, dear.” He scuffed out the pentagram with his boot and led them over to the summoning circle to do the same there.

Ciri felt a pang of worry at the sight of three bright white hairs at his temple, stark against the flame red of the rest of his hair. 

“Some of your hair’s gone white,” she murmured. “Not nearly as bad as mine has. Just a few strands. But…”

“I’m fine,” he told her, and he straightened as best he could as Solas and the others approached. The officious mage and his two ragged companions crept out from around a boulder, their eyes wide.

“How did you _do_ that?” the mage asked.

Solas whirled to face them, scowling. “ _You_. You tortured my friend. Brutalized them.”

“We – we didn’t know it was just a spirit!” the mage protested.

Olgierd scoffed. “Speaks well of that expertise you boasted of.”

“If not for Olgierd, your actions would have led to Wisdom’s death!” Solas snapped. His knuckles went white and bloodless around his staff.

Ciri reached out to him, and like before, set a hand on his arm. “Wisdom lived, Solas,” she reminded him, keeping her voice low so the ragged mages couldn’t hear. “I understand wanting vengeance, but would they want you to murder these idiots on their behalf?”

The muscles beneath her hand tensed, then slowly relaxed. “No,” he admitted, still glaring at the mages. “But something must be done.”

“Let me?” she asked him.

He gave her a sidelong look and nodded once, a short jerk of his chin. “Very well.”

Ciri stepped forward. “You clearly can’t be trusted to make sound decisions,” she said dryly. “Is there somewhere my scouts can escort you to? I’m hesitant to leave you alone here in Dirthavaren. I expect you’ll capture another poor spirit and kill off the rest of your group.”

The self-appointed spokesperson looked offended at that, but the two women flanking him winced. “That’s not –”

“Ferelden,” the woman on the left interrupted. “We heard the rebellion was over, that the rebel mages allied with the Inquisition. Are mages still allowed in Ferelden if we don’t use our magic against people?”

Ciri took a long, deliberate look at the broken _elgar’arla_ pillars, then back at the mages. “This sort of magic won’t be welcome, either.”

The woman on the right pinched the middle mage’s arm viciously before he could protest. “Ow!”

“We understand,” she said with a bow of her head.

“Scout Mahanon and Mihris will escort you to the Riverwatch camp for the night,” Ciri told them. “You’ll leave for Ferelden in the morning. If you like, you might find employment with the Inquisition. It would keep you safe and out of trouble.”

The woman on the right pinched the man in the middle again. “That’s a generous offer, and we’ll consider it. If we took you up on it, who should we say recommended us?”

“Inquisitor Cirilla Morhen,” Ciri said.

The mage in the middle swallowed hard. “Inquisitor?”

“That is my title, yes,” Ciri said mildly. “Have a safe trip to the camp. Try not to bind any more spirits.”

Mahanon stalked forward with Mihris at his side and gave the three mages a hard look. “Stay close, _shemlen_ , and follow us.”

The woman on the right pinched her colleague a third time. “Thank you for the escort, Scout Mahanon.”

“Hmph.”

The trio headed off along the river’s edge, Mahanon in the lead and Mihris bringing up the rear. Solas watched them go with a bitter expression on his face, and he turned back to Ciri once they were out of hearing range.

“That was too kind to them. Far too kind.”

“What else was left?” she asked him. “We couldn’t kill them in cold blood, and it would be risky to leave them to their own devices. There are no laws I can invoke to punish them for what they did, though I do agree that it was wrong. Wisdom killed six of them, Solas, and it’s their own fault for trying to bind them. Let the loss of life be punishment enough.”

His mouth flattened to a thin, disapproving line, but she held his gaze, and eventually he sighed and relented. "I don't like it, _lethallin_. But I see your point.”

“I’m sorry, Solas,” she said softly. “I know it’s not what you wanted.”

He gave her a small, understanding smile. “Your mercy is your strength. And you are right. Wisdom would not wish vengeance carried out on their behalf.”

“Let’s go back to the forward camp,” she said with a brief glance up at the late afternoon sun. “We can head to Skyhold tomorrow.”

* * *

Once they’d all settled around the campfire for supper, with bowls of stew distributed and weapons set to the side, Solas turned his attention to Olgierd.

“I owe you more than I can express,” he said. “Wisdom is one of my oldest and dearest friends. For a moment I thought all was lost.”

“I’m glad I could spare you that pain,” Olgierd replied.

Solas nodded and seemed to think for a moment, his lavender-gray eyes sharpening as they assessed Olgierd’s tired form and his new strands of white hair. “That is the second time in as many weeks that I have encountered a language I’m unfamiliar with.”

Olgierd shrugged and ate another mouthful of stew. “It’s not conversational. It’s meant for that sort of magic. Summoning spirits, banishing and binding. What I did stretched its use nearly past what I can manage.”

“I am an expert on spirits and the Fade,” Solas said. “Perhaps the greatest expert you’ll meet. But I have never heard of the sort of magic you did.” He gave Olgierd a speculative look. “Does it have anything to do with the demon you encountered in your past? The one Ciri’s father saved you from?”

“It does,” Olgierd said after a brief pause.

“You haven’t spoken much of that experience. Will you share it with us?”

Ciri watched as Olgierd paused again, then nodded in agreement. Sera leaned forward eagerly, her cheeks bulging with food.

“Mmf! ‘Scuse me. Wot, really? Finally goin’ to spill your secrets?”

“May as well,” Olgierd said, smiling at her.

He met Ciri’s eyes, and she tried to wordlessly convey a warning for discretion to him. A wry twitch of his lips and the barest wink let her know he understood.

The story he told was almost familiar to her. Two wild brothers, but half Ferelden this time, with a Nevarran father. A beautiful maiden from a wealthy family, and a pledge to wed. A loss of fortune, and a broken engagement. And the elder brother, desperate for help, searching for something, anything, that could reunite him with his love.

"A demon found me at my lowest point," he said. "Promised to restore my family's fortune, give me back Iris' hand, and let me live as if there were no tomorrow. But there was a catch.”

“There always is,” Solas said.

“Iris or Vlodimir. I had to choose between them. One would need to die for the demon’s spell to work.” Olgierd looked down at his hands, then at Solas. “I chose Vlod. And the next day, he fell in battle.”

Solas sat back on his log, a light of understanding in his eyes. “You and Adventure spoke of this in the Fade.”

“We did.”

“But – but, why?” Sera asked. “Why not tell the stupid demon to piss off?” She stared at him as if he were a stranger.

“Because I was a selfish, grasping, desperate man,” Olgierd said, “and my understanding of the world was a cruel one.”

Sera’s brow wrinkled in confusion and upset, and she looked away.

“I assume the demon failed to uphold its end of the bargain,” Dorian said. “Or you wouldn’t have been at Haven with three robes, a single pair of boots, scars enough for two dozen men, and no wife.”

“It upheld its end all too well,” Olgierd told them. “I had my family’s fortune again. Iris and I were wed. But the third part was twisted against me. Instead of living as though there were no tomorrow, my heart was hardened against all emotion. My body could scar –” He touched the largest of the scars across his chest. “– but no blade could kill me. I’d not been a good man before, but I became a monster. And Iris hated me for it. There was enough of me left that couldn’t bear to hurt her with my presence, so I left her.

“She died,” he said softly. “Years ago. I wasn’t with her when she passed. I didn’t have the heart to mourn until Ciri’s father confronted the demon and forced it to free me from its curse.”

Solas nodded slowly. “And your strange knowledge?”

“I wouldn’t have that if not for the demon,” Olgierd said, and Ciri realized it was an entirely truthful answer. “I dislike what the magic is intended for and prefer not to use it. But if I can be of help with it, then perhaps something good has come of my knowledge.”

Silence stretched for a long, solemn moment, then Solas set his bowl to the side and leaned forward. “Wisdom was right. Your choices, painful and ugly as they were, made you a better man in the end. I don’t believe I could call the man you spoke of a friend, but you…you, I think I can.”

“We all have our winding paths to clarity,” Dorian said, raising his mug to Olgierd. “I know I’ve stumbled off mine more than a few times.”

“I expect we all have,” Ciri agreed.

Solas nodded. “Indeed. Though you are lucky you survived the attentions of a Forbidden One.”

“A Forbidden One?” Olgierd asked. “Like Mihris’ Imshael?”

“I believe it _was_ Imshael,” Solas said. “Did he introduce himself by name?”

“Not by that name. He called himself Mirror.”

“An alias I'm unfamiliar with. But he presented himself as an average-looking man? Offered to fulfill your greatest desires so long as you did something, or sacrificed something, for him in turn?"

Olgierd raised his eyebrows. “Yes, to both of those.”

“As I thought.”

Ciri stifled a sigh of relief that Solas had hit upon an alternative explanation for Gaunter O’Dimm. Then she had to repress a shiver of apprehension. What if he was right, and they were one and the same? Did O’Dimm have the same sort of world-crossing powers that she did? She met Olgierd’s eyes and found veiled concern in their depths.

“Your friend Wisdom,” Olgierd said, changing the subject. “They called me ‘brother-of-Adventure.’ Do you think they meant…”

He trailed off, his hand tightening on his bowl.

“Will he ever come back?” he asked.

“There’s no way to know for certain,” Solas said with rare gentleness. “But I do hope so, for your sake.”

“My thanks.”

Sera huffed and stood from her seat to stalk across the campsite and drop down beside Olgierd with her half-empty bowl. “I don’t like it,” she muttered. “I thought – You were nice, yeah? Weird, and all scarred, and a robe, _and_ a rich tit, but nice. Kind. Kind people don’t kill their brothers.”

“No,” Olgierd said simply. “They don’t.”

She scowled at him. “No more muckin’ around with demons.”

“Never again, Sera.” He pressed his scarred right hand to his heart. “You have my word.”

“ _Ugh_." She set her bowl down by her feet and nudged his shoulder with hers. "I still like you, stupid. Even if you did use to be awful. It's just confusin', is all."

He nudged her back, smiling slightly. “I’ll try not to confuse you going forward.”

“Arse.” She stuck her tongue out and nudged him harder. “Sing somethin’ nice. That’s enough dark and gloomy shite for one day.”

“Something nice?” Olgierd looked briefly thoughtful, then his smile widened.

“Oh, what’s all the noise, the commotion, hey,  
The mosquito has married the fly.

“Taking for himself a darling wife, hey,  
That cannot cook nor sew for her old man.”

Sera burst into startled laughter. “That’s bollocks!”

“A wicked storm has broken out, hey,  
And that mosquito was blown clear away.

“Oh, the mosquito fell from the tree, hey,  
Breaking and shattering all of his bones.”

The atmosphere around the campfire lightened as one silly song flowed into the next, each chased by Sera’s cackles and Solas and Dorian’s appreciative chuckles. Ciri sat back with a small smile, her mind hard at work.

Had saving Wisdom done anything to help her in her cause with Solas? He so rarely talked about his past, but he’d been frantic at the thought of losing a friend she hadn’t known about until it was nearly too late to help. They seemed to understand him well, too, with their cautionary words against certainty and pride. Solas had even expressed friendship to Olgierd – a first outside his preference for spirits and Ciri. Were they beginning to make progress with him?

And the parallels between Imshael and Gaunter O’Dimm...she’d been aware of them before, but they were too stark to ignore now. If Imshael made an appearance, she’d have to be ready for the worst.

 _But first_ , she thought, watching her friends laugh, _we’ll need to survive the empress’ masquerade._


	58. Preparation and Perfumery

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Preparations get underway for the masquerade. Ciri turns a corner with Leliana and meets a parfumier who holds a wealth of useful gossip. Olgierd dances with Josephine and revisits his conversation with Skyhold's spymaster.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> beta-read by brightspot149. Thank you!

Scout Donnel met their return party at Skyhold’s stables within minutes of their return from Dirthavaren, and he bowed to Ciri as she dismounted from Zephyr's back. "Ambassador Montilyet and Sister Nightingale would like to see you on the bottom floor of the main building, Inquisitor."

"Right now?"

"After you've cleaned up," he said. "The ambassador said she set out clothes for you. She wants the rest of you down there as well," he added, looking past Ciri to the others.

Olgierd nodded to him. "Of course.”

"Why downstairs?" Sera asked.

Scout Donnel shrugged and looked over his shoulder at the door to the kitchens. "That tailor and his assistants took over the main room down there. You're wanted for measurements and the like. The others have already had their first fitting."

"We won't keep them waiting," Ciri said. "Thank you for passing on the message."

Scout Donnel bowed again. "Just doing my duty, Your Worship."

Sera left first, throwing a casual wave over her shoulder as she headed to the tavern. Ciri parted ways with Olgierd, Solas, and Dorian in the main hall and hurried to her room to clean up and change. As promised, clothes were laid out on the foot of her bed, and the water in the tub was still steaming. She stripped off her armor and the travel-worn shirt beneath it and sank into the water with a faint sigh.

Once she'd toweled off and dressed in the thin shirt and fitted trousers Josephine had set out, she made her way to the bottom level of Skyhold's main building. The sound of a dozen voices drifted up the stairs as she opened the door, and she paused for a moment to listen. Several of them wove in and out of heavily accented Common, falling into Orlesian and then back. She could pick up Sera's voice, and Josephine's. A bright laugh that belonged to Dorian.

A hand came down on her shoulder.

"Dropping eaves?" Olgierd asked quietly, a smile in his voice.

"I suppose I am," she admitted. She smiled back. "Come on."

The wide-open space at the bottom of the stairs had been completely transformed in the time they'd been away. Wooden tables and dressmakers' dummies filled the area, and bolts of cloth leaned against the pillars and walls in a display of sumptuousness: silks, organza, and satin, in silvery gray, deep emerald, rich crimson, soft charcoal, and pure white. Thick bobbins of lace and spools of incredibly fine silver and gold wire sat in stacks atop the nearest table. A short, masked man with curly brown hair and a thin mustache directed his assistants with a constant stream of Orlesian, and they hurried to carry out his instructions. It was a scene of beautiful, crowded, well-organized chaos, and a far cry from the hard conditions of the road and the problems that plagued Dirthavaren.

Dorian waved his fingers subtly at them as they came down the stairs. It was the only part of him that could wave, as one of the assistants was measuring his arm span and calling out the number to another waiting with charcoal and parchment. A few feet away, Solas stood calmly while yet another assistant measured his inseam, and a table over, Sera submitted to the same treatment as Dorian with bad grace.

Leliana caught sight of them and nudged Josephine, who smiled brightly and hurried over to brush a kiss across Olgierd's cheek. He returned it gently, his hand finding hers at her side.

"Welcome back," she said softly. She looked up at him and frowned, reaching up with her free hand to touch the few white strands at his temples.

"I'm fine, dove," he murmured. "I used goetia for something it wasn't meant for, and there was a price to be paid."

Her hand slipped down to rest on his cheek, and her eyes searched his. Ciri took a step away, feeling uncomfortably like she was observing something intensely personal and private.

"Was it worth it?" Josephine asked.

"I believe it was."

"Well then," she said, and she smiled again. "I do wish you wouldn't take risks, but I can't fault you for doing the right thing."

They broke apart reluctantly, and Josephine turned to Ciri.

"It's good to see you. The reports out of Dirthavaren were encouraging, though we have questions about that temple you found with our scouts."

"As do I," Ciri said. She cast her eyes over the bustle. "I take it we have an invitation secured?"

"Two of them, in fact." Josephine leaned in and lowered her voice. "Duke Cyril de Montfort extended an invitation as thanks for your work in Dirthavaren, and Grand Duke Gaspard has done the same. Either one will get us there, but it makes a statement if you choose one over the other."

"No time to debate it in the War Room, I take it?" she asked.

Josephine shook her head. "We're cutting it close as it is."

Ciri crossed her arms and let her gaze settle on the rich bolts of fabric as she thought. Her instinctive response, to accept Duke Cyril's invitation, seemed logical enough. He was one of the few steady Orlesian allies they had. She hadn't met him in person yet, but he'd always come through for them. He struck her as trustworthy, or as trustworthy as an Orlesian noble could be. His invitation made sense. They had an established relationship, an accord. He was her connection to the empress.

Grand Duke Gaspard's invitation, on the other hand, came out of nowhere – or, perhaps, out of some sense of chevalier honor for her work saving his soldiers. They were utter strangers to one another, with none of the mutual favors or letters exchanged that gave Ciri a bit of insight into Duke Cyril. He might have invited her out of gratitude, but a far larger part of it was likely so it would appear he had the Inquisitor on his side at the peace talks. Moves within moves in the Orlesian Grand Game.

The easy choice, the logical choice, would be to accept Duke Cyril's invitation. But something about Grand Duke Gaspard's play unsettled her. It was too self-assured.

Leliana's warning about Papillon came to her, and she gripped her elbows tightly before forcing herself to relax.

_ The center of Papillon's web of influence is Lydes. And before it was Lydes, it was Verchiel. _

"I have a feeling there's a trap in Grand Duke Gaspard's invitation," Ciri said at last. "I think the best thing to do would be to spring it."

Josephine sighed. "Of course there is. And of course you do. Very well. But do so carefully."

"I promise, Josephine," Ciri said. "And besides, if things don't go to plan at the masquerade, I'd rather Gaspard suffer the political repercussions from inviting us than Duke Cyril."

"And here I thought you disliked politics," Olgierd commented.

"Vehemently," Ciri said. "But that doesn't mean I don't understand them."

Josephine led them away from the stairs and over to the man issuing orders to his small army of assistants. "Inquisitor Morhen, Messere von Everec, meet Monsieur Colet le Mire, Val Royeaux's finest tailor. Monsieur le Mire, our Inquisitor and her dear friend, Olgierd."

Monsieur le Mire shook their hands enthusiastically, looking them up and down with a spark in his eyes. "Such coloring! What stature! It's my pleasure to dress you both. Step just over here and my assistants will take your measurements – you, monsieur, will need to shed a layer or two."

Olgierd obligingly stripped down to his under-robe and set his clothes on the nearest table. A short elven woman began to briskly measure him from head to toe while a human woman not quite out of adolescence did the same for Ciri.

Leliana made her way over as the assistant measured around Ciri's shoulders, and she greeted her with a small but genuine smile. "You'll have quite the ballgown, Inquisitor. Triss Merigold and I collaborated on its design."

"Should I be worried?" Ciri asked, only half-jokingly. She was all too aware of sorceresses' fondness for revealing garments, and she had no desire to be stuffed into one of those ridiculous Orlesian gowns with their exaggerated silhouettes.

"Not at all. It's quite tasteful, if a bit exotic." Leliana's smile grew. "You may even start a trend."

"Do I get a hint?"

"Not until your first fitting," Leliana teased. At Ciri's mild glare, she relented. "The green silk is for you, to match your emerald earrings. You'll have to wear a different necklace, of course."

Ciri's hand went to her agate pendant and wolf's-head medallion. "I'd feel naked without them."

"It will only be for one evening," Josephine said kindly.

Ciri sighed and reluctantly released her necklaces. "I suppose so. What's everyone else wearing?"

"Charcoal and crimson, as Triss suggested, in formalwear tailored to suit their styles. We're still attempting to work out something appropriate for Sera and Solas, and my goodness, the arguments we had with Iron Bull to get him to agree to a shirt! Cole…" Josephine trailed off in frustration and amusement. "He is a sweet boy, but from what we gathered talking to him, he didn't understand the point of the new outfit when he doesn't want to be remembered. We made him something anyway, of course."

"And what will you wear?"

"Something less House Montilyet and more Inquisition," Josephine said, running a hand over her wide leather belt. She caught Olgierd's eye and smiled. "With narrower sleeves. I have a bracelet to show off that will go beautifully with our chosen colors."

Olgierd said nothing, but his return smile was fond. 

"Just one more, Inquisitor," the assistant said as she wrapped her linen tape around Ciri's hips and turned to scribble down the measurement. "That's the last of them. Thank you."

" _Merci, monsieur_." Olgierd's assistant bobbed her head and stepped back as well.

"Thank _you_ , dear," he said as he pulled on his outer robe again and secured his sash and belt.

Sera's raised voice at the end of the room caught Ciri's attention, and she looked over to see her friend angrily shaking her head and gesturing at the parchment yet another assistant was holding up before her.

"No!" Sera said stridently. "It's too elfy! An' that one's too frilly! Look at me, lady. Do I look Dalish? Or like a fancy-pants noble tit? I want _trousers_."

"But mademoiselle –"

"Trou. Sers."

Leliana sighed. "I'll handle this. I have an idea that might appeal to her, at least."

She slipped away to stand between Sera and her increasingly harried assistant, and she leaned forward to whisper in her ear. Sera's eyes went wide.

"Wot, really?"

"Absolutely."

"An' you think –"

"I do."

Sera stared hard at her, all humor gone. "An' it's not just because I'm an elf?"

"You are uniquely talented, Sera," Leliana said with apparent sincerity. "We couldn't trust it to anyone else."

"Right then." Sera grinned at the assistant. "See you never. Go get your hands on Solas, yeah?”

With a bright cackle, she darted up the stairs and out of the tailor’s makeshift studio.

Ciri took the opportunity, now that she was free of the linen measuring tape, to wander between the tables and dress forms to see the clothes in progress. At the far end of the room, a row of fully dressed dressmaker's dummies stood in a row, resplendent in charcoal and crimson and embellished with gold embroidery thread. She meandered before them, attempting to match the clothes to the person. The enormous doublet and breeches with a military twist could only belong to the Iron Bull. The gown with the diamond-shaped window in the chest and the exaggerated shoulders no doubt went to Vivienne. The dark, high-necked gown with gold accents was likely Triss', and the sweetly feminine silhouette of the full skirt and modest neckline of the next dress struck her as something Josephine would wear. Varric's tailored coat and vibrant shirt stood out from the rest of the menswear, as well.

The others weren't so easy to discern, but they were all beautifully crafted, and gave her hope that the gown Triss and Leliana had designed for her would suit her as well as these would suit their wearers.

Leliana rejoined her and gently touched her elbow. "Come, Inquisitor. I'll introduce you to Madame Potin."

Ciri turned from the row of outfits to follow Leliana back out the room and up the stairs. "Not that I'll argue against a new pair of shoes, but won't the slippers I bought in Val Royeaux suffice?"

A quiet laugh escaped Leliana. "Footwear is serious business in the Imperial Court, I'm afraid. You can't wear a pair you already showed at a minor soiree to an event as grand as this masquerade. Just come with me and let me do the talking. I'll take care of everything."

"Alright," she agreed. "I trust you."

Leliana nodded firmly. “A wise decision. Your trust is not misplaced, Inquisitor.”

Ciri had the abrupt feeling Leliana was talking about more than shoes. “I know,” she said seriously. “We may have had a rough start, but I do trust you. I’d like to think we might even be friends, of a sort.”

“We are,” Leliana agreed. “And I apologize for the part I played in that rough start. I was grieving, angry. Instead of seeing a woman who tried to save the Divine, I saw only that you failed. The rumors surrounding you and Olgierd were so suspicious. It was my duty to investigate and to protect the Inquisition, but I let that suspicion and anger blind me. What I asked you to do to recruit Mahanon and Malika –"

"I forgive you," Ciri said at once. "And I'm sorry I lied to you for months."

"Forgiven, Inquisitor," Leliana said gently. There wasn't even a hint of sharpness to her eyes. "I understand your caution."

"My friends call me Ciri," she offered, and she was rewarded by another small smile.

"Well then, _Ciri_." Leliana nudged her side with a soft laugh. "Let's not leave Madame Potin waiting."

Ciri beamed at Leliana. "My life – and my shoes – are in your hands.”

* * *

"Hello?" Ciri pushed open the door to Triss and Solas' workroom and looked around in curiosity. Vivienne had directed her here after breakfast with a languid wave of her wrist, telling her only that she was expected. But neither Triss nor Solas was here. Only a tall, thin man with light brown skin and pale gray eyes behind a plain silver half-mask occupied the room, and he beckoned her in impatiently.

"Inquisitor Morhen," he said. His accent was strange, an odd blend of nasal Orlesian and Antivan musicality. He looked her up and down carefully. "Hm. You're young. No musks for you. Strength, beauty, youth, a hint of exoticism – you are a Marcher, yes?"

Ciri nodded.

"Forget that. We will embrace the Elvhen, not the provincial city-states. Smell this."

The man went to a massive open chest against the wall lined with tray upon tray of little glass vials and plucked one from the upper left-hand corner. With quick, precise movements, he uncorked the vial and let a single drop fall onto a small linen square. He safely stowed the vial back in its place and wafted the cloth beneath her nose.

"It smells sweet – almost like grapes?" Ciri gently pushed his hand aside. "I'm sorry, you _are_ Rene de Genellen, correct?"

"Ah, I knew I'd forgotten something," the man said. "Yes, that's my name. Grapes, bah. This is passion flower. Well?"

"Too sweet," Ciri said decisively.

"Too sweet! Forget the passion flower!" He hurried back to his chest. "Have you ever worn perfume, Inquisitor?"

"No, but my mother did. Lilacs and gooseberries. And I knew other women growing up who did."

Monsieur de Genellen cast a curious glance over his shoulder at her as he searched his collection of scents. "Lilacs and gooseberries? What an intriguing combination."

"Mm-hmm. My father loved it."

Another three squares of linen were proffered, and Ciri rejected the first one swiftly, the second slowly, and handed the third back with a nod. "That one I like."

"Seheron limes, grown in Antiva," he said. "A faintly sweet note. Somewhat dry. Not too sweet?"

"I like the citrus," she told him. "Is there anything else like that?"

His eyes lit up, and back he went to his chest.

They worked their way through eight more samples before circling back to the Seheron lime, which Ciri liked just as well as the sunny, almost honeyed blood orange.

"We'll set them both aside," Monsieur de Genellen decided. "Hm."

"Have you made perfumes for many members of the imperial court?" she asked.

"Oh yes! And colognes. Every member of the Council of Heralds is a return customer."

"Maybe," she said to the next square stuck under her nose.

"A 'maybe' is a 'no,' Inquisitor. Try this one."

"Too powdery. Ah –" she hesitated. "I don't suppose you know much about your clients beyond their taste in perfumes and colognes."

He looked up from his chest of oils and cocked his head at her, gray eyes keen. "Looking for gossip, Inquisitor? Something to keep the sharks at bay when you go swimming in Halamshiral's waters?"

"I do need an edge," she admitted.

"You'll want to temper that honesty," he advised her. "Hm. Smell this."

"Is that freesia? No – lily?"

"Very similar. Lady-of-the-night orchid. Yes? No?"

"I like the spicy undertone, but I'm still hesitant about the powdery note. That little bit of jasmine is nice."

"Good, good! We're narrowing it down." He turned back to his chest and said over his shoulder, "The Doucy family breeds coursing hounds. They aren't quite as intelligent as Ferelden mabari, but they're the pride of the Lake Celestine region. Ask Comte Lothair about his prize bitch Grâce and he'll talk your ear off – and soften to you, though he won't realize there's a strict correlation."

"Thank you. This one's nice. A little strong. Maybe _too_ much spice."

"Perhaps as a base note? I'll set it aside. Let's see…Marquis Etienne de Chevin recently weathered quite a scandal. Comte Brevin de Chalons put forth a false de Chevin relative with counterfeit noble credentials for the chevaliers. The man turned out to be an elf-blooded commoner – no small thing on its own, but given that he'd been the empress' champion, and failed her, well. Marquis Etienne still has his title and holdings, but he no longer has her Imperial Majesty's favor, despite none of it being his fault."

That could potentially be very useful. Ciri hadn't made the connection between Mihris' Michel de Chevin and the de Chevin in the Council of Heralds, but of course there would have been someone behind his rise. "That's more substantial than dog breeding. Wouldn't your business suffer if your clients knew you told me things about them?"

"Nothing I say isn't publicly known," Monsieur de Genellen said blithely as he set another drop of oil on a linen square. "Within the social circles of Orlais' nobility, of course. You're at a disadvantage, Inquisitor, foreign and elf-blooded as you are. So from one elf-blooded foreigner to another, allow me to lend a hand."

She wouldn't turn down the help, though it struck her as somewhat odd that she hadn’t had to be more persuasive. "Gladly. Thank you."

They worked their way through a bouquet of flowers together, white florals and light spicy notes, some slightly green, others bright and almost tart before fading to sweetness. Interspersed with each were tidbits on the most important members of the imperial court. The late Marquise Mantillon's son Renaud had a gambling problem and was once a suitor of the empress. Duke Germain de Chalons was in his eighties and was, by all accounts, a disagreeable old sot with a fondness for rich red wines, and he’d all but stopped playing the Game years ago. Duke Bastien de Ghislain was sick with some mysterious ailment and had retired from court, turning over his duties to his son Laurent, a young man who was known to take after his father in certain roguish habits. And Comtesse Solange Montbelliard was surprisingly liberal in her opinions on mages, and quite fond of trinkets and finery.

"Oh, I like this one!" Ciri exclaimed. The scent unfolded sweetly, white floral and a bit opulent, close to but not quite jasmine. "What is it?"

"Jasmine orchid," he said, setting it down with the other yeses. "Let's see, who's left?"

"Duke Cyril de Montfort," she prompted him. 

"Hm. Duke Cyril is the most eligible bachelor in the empire. Young, wealthy, intelligent, and by all accounts from his adolescence, before he donned a mask, quite handsome. Not to speak ill of his late father, but he's far better liked than Duke Prosper. Better taste in cologne, as well," he muttered. "He's a fan of Messere Tethras' books. Plays the Game well – not avidly, or in a particularly cutthroat way, but he understands politics, and he's polite. Politeness will get a person far."

"What are his politics? Oh – no. I _like_ smoky scents, but –"

"Yes, you're right. It doesn't go with the others at all. We'd have to build a new profile. Ah, the duke's politics. He supports the empress' cultural reforms, as you might imagine. He's a patron of the theater, and he sponsors bright, impoverished scholars at the university. He even sponsored an elf once, which had the court gossiping for weeks until the next scandal arose. He’s also an accomplished duelist, which keeps tongues from wagging too freely."

Ciri nodded thoughtfully. "So he's sympathetic to elves? To the disadvantaged?"

"By all appearances, and only in the past few years. He was as...hm, callous, perhaps...as his peers when he was younger. Before his father died. He stands with the empress, at least."

_ The empress burned down an alienage and killed three thousand elves, _ Ciri thought. She'd dearly like to know Duke Cyril's opinion on that.

Monsieur de Genellen wafted another square beneath her nose, and at Ciri's hesitation, said once more, "A 'maybe' is a 'no.'"

"Then no."

" _Très bon_ ," he said, and he gave her a shallow bow. "I believe I have all I need, Inquisitor. Thank you for your patience. Your perfume will be delivered at the end of the week."

"Thank you for coming all the way to Skyhold, Monsieur," Ciri said sincerely. "And for all your information."

"Now _that_ was my pleasure." He returned to his chest and said, his voice suddenly quite serious, "Be very careful in Halamshiral, Inquisitor. There are some who would see your blood as reason enough to cut you down – and too much elven blood has been spilled in that city already."

"I'll take care."

She nodded to him and slipped out the door to head back to the main hall, her mind on his warning.

* * *

"And circle your partner – _gracefully_ , darlings – and don't forget the arm motions as you do so," Vivienne called out to her pupils. "Mind your footwork. Light, delicate steps, Ser Owain. We are not ogres."

Olgierd caught Josephine's eyes as they faced each other again, and they both smiled.

"Tell me," he said quietly, slipping past her once more, "which one of these dances will allow me to hold you?"

She threw him a laughing look, her hands and feet not missing a beat. "Our hands will touch in the menuet and the bourrée."

"How scandalous."

Laughter bubbled out of her, and they faced each other again, knees bobbing slightly before continuing on. "You will enjoy the volte, I think. It's quite a bit more intimate. You'll have your hands on my waist. But it's not considered quite as high class, so it's unlikely we'll have the opportunity to dance it together at the masquerade."

The minstrel's music slowed and stopped, and Olgierd bowed to Josephine as she curtseyed back.

"The volte sounds promising," he said. "Should we slip their minstrels some gold under the table? Start a rumor that Ciri has an insatiable love for that dance? Loudly talk of how dull their music is when we're there?"

She burst into laughter again, bright and joyful, and leaned forward to kiss him softly. "You are… Oh, my dear one. Thank you for joining me in this."

Her joy was infectious, and he smiled back at her, struck by the captivating sparkle in her eyes and the flush to her cheeks. "I promised you a partner worth stepping out with. These dances make you happy; it's plain enough to anyone who looks at you. I only ever wish to add to that happiness."

Josephine's smile shrank into something soft and private, and she reached out to him. Whatever she had to say, however, was cut off by a polite "Pardon me," from a scout that quietly appeared at their side.

"Yes?" Josephine asked politely.

"Trouble in Nevarra, Ambassador. Sister Nightingale had the intelligence report sent to your desk due to it being a diplomatic matter. Time-sensitive, she said."

Josephine sighed. "I'll be there at once. Olgierd, I'm sorry to leave you."

"We both have our duties." He brushed a kiss across her cheek and drew back, still smiling. "If you don't return, I'll see you at supper."

"Of course."

Bereft of a partner, he turned to take a seat at one of the benches along the wall as she departed. The minstrel from the tavern – Maryden, he believed her name was – hadn't begun playing again, and Vivienne's students were drifting away to chat together or sit and rest.

The lessons had begun not long after he'd left for Dirthavaren with Ciri and the others. Triss and Owain had already been through them but returned at Vivienne’s request to give Ciri a wider range of dance partners than only him or Solas. Sera had disappeared from Skyhold over a week ago, and Solas had expressed reluctance. But while Sera had a clear excuse for missing lessons, Leliana had insisted Solas join in. It seemed a worthwhile decision, as well, as he'd appeared genuinely happy to dance with Ciri yesterday.

Ciri did well with the dances, of course, nimble and graceful as she was. But she'd pulled a face or two at him behind Vivienne's back that had him stifling laughter. These delicate, dainty things were hardly the fare of the childhood she'd had in Cintra's court, or in the Skelligan Isles. They were both accustomed to more enthusiastic tunes, and moves to go with them.

Olgierd heard a faint clink of chainmail, and Leliana settled on the bench beside him. "Was the sarabande not to your liking?"

He glanced at her, a bit wary of her intentions, but she seemed perfectly content to make idle conversation. He gave her a small smile and shook his head. "Josephine enjoys them, which is enough for me. But there's not much life to these steps. They're all fuss and no fire."

"Oh, don't say that at the masquerade!" Leliana said in lighthearted warning. "The Orlesian nobility take pride in the technical perfection of their dances. There was even a treatise written in the last Age on the great social value of the bourrée. A man displays his grace and good temper while dancing, and dancing is practiced to 'reveal whether lovers are in good health and sound of limb.'"

He laughed under his breath. "I can't very well argue with such logic."

"There are some very daring Antivan dances I'm certain Josephine knows," Leliana mused. "Hardly appropriate for an Orlesian masquerade, but she would love to teach you, I'm sure."

He nodded and waited, certain she had a reason for speaking to him. She looked at him for a long moment, her dagger-sharp gaze oddly blunted, and sighed.

"She loves that book of poetry you gave her. 'The Blue Pearl'? She said some of the poems moved her to tears. And she's been gifted jewelry before, but no one has ever picked out anything like that bracelet. It's exactly her taste."

Despite his reservations, he felt his lips curl into a smile. Josephine had jokingly scolded him for the gifts, reminding him that the only thing she'd asked for was his safe return. But she'd been genuinely appreciative of the bracelet, and she'd teared up at the first poem in the blue leather volume. With the reception the bracelet and 'The Blue Pearl' received, he had high hopes that she'd be similarly delighted with the ring and 'The Collected Works of Gonzal de Verceo' later.

"I know," he said, and at the flicker of dissatisfaction that crossed Leliana's face, he added gently, "I do know Josephine, Sister."

"Yes, I suppose you do." Her voice was soft and thoughtful. "I haven't seen her so happy in years. To tell the truth, I don't know if I ever have. And it's not the gifts, don't mistake me, though she certainly appreciates that you know her taste. It's simply…"

"Still worse than most of her past suitors put together, I suppose," he said dryly.

She cut a ruefully amused look at him. "You are an objectively terrible man."

"A fair assessment."

"No, it's not." She sighed again. "You _were_ , and I respect that you've changed your ways _._ Worse than most of them put together? You're no longer penniless. You have no debts or vices. You aren't violent outside of battle. As for older…how old are you?"

He let out a huff of laughter. "I’m not certain,” he admitted. She raised an eyebrow at him, and he elaborated, lowering his voice. "Thirty-nine in body, I believe, and seventy-two in mind. The immortality confuses things somewhat, and I feel more the age my body is than my mind these days."

She shut her eyes, looking pained, and he laughed again. "Thirty-nine," she said firmly when she opened them again. "Ten years is a modest and acceptable age gap in noble relationships."

"Hm." He waited again for her to continue, but she held her peace. "Go on, Sister. That's all but one of the suitors you ran off. There's still a sticking point for you."

"It's not something that matters anymore," Leliana said quietly. "I thought, I believed, that Josephine deserved to be someone's first love, that a widower wouldn't have room in his heart for her. She disagreed with me when I brought it up. Quite vehemently, you might be pleased to know."

He shrugged and said, "It's a reasonable concern. Some people have their great loves and can never get over them once they pass. They mourn forever, compare all subsequent lovers to the one who came before and find them all wanting."

"But not you?" she asked, her voice just barely shading into incredulity.

"My love for Josephine isn't diminished for having loved Iris first. She isn't second-best, or lesser, or a consolation prize." He leaned back against the table behind them and propped himself up on his elbows. "I hold my memories of Iris in my heart, but in truth, few of them are untainted by Mirror's curse. I brought misery into our marriage. We weren't happy, even before I made such a mess of things. When I had a heart of stone, I broke hers. If regrets were currency, I'd be richer than your empress.

"But I cannot regret coming here. Nor could I ever regret loving Josephine. She is, as I said before, so very easy to love."

He could feel Leliana's eyes on him as she sat beside him in silence. Across the way, Ciri, Solas, Owain, and Triss were wrapped in an animated discussion, Ciri gesturing and laughing as she slouched against Owain's shoulder. Farther up the hall, Vivienne stood in consultation with Maryden. The minstrel plucked a tune, then said something to Vivienne, who shook her head and sketched out a beat in the air with an elegant hand.

“Was there something else?” Leliana asked. “You seem at ease, but there’s something I can’t put my finger on.” She tilted her cowled head at Olgierd. “Another of your secrets?”

“Nay, Sister.” He sighed and looked away from Solas and Ciri. “Solas believes the one who cursed me is one of your Forbidden Ones. Imshael. I hear you’re looking for him for Mihris.”

“We are,” she said, “though we haven’t had much luck finding him.” There was a hint of concern in her voice as she asked, her eyes catching on his temple, “Do you think he’s right?”

“I’ve no idea. He made a fair argument in favor.” The thought put a cold pit in his stomach. He’d finally begun to feel like he’d started anew, only to have the worst of his demons revisited on him.

“Will this harm Josephine in any way?”

“Never.” He sat forward abruptly at that. “I’ll not let it, no matter what comes. You have my word.”

Leliana nodded and fell silent again. He didn’t feel the need to fill it this time, and they sat side by side wordlessly, both of them watching the laughing group across the hall and listening to Maryden strum chords for Vivienne.

"Come," Leliana said at last. She stood and looked down at Olgierd, her knife-like smile small and oddly kind. "I'll be your partner until Josephine returns. You can tell me all about that mysterious tablet you found in the temple to Dirthamen that Solas has been studying."

He stood as well. "That might have to wait for present company to leave," he said, inclining his head at Solas. "But I'll share what I can."

"In that case, tell me your thoughts on Dirthavaren," she said as they walked side by side on to the makeshift dance floor. "You lived a…colorful…life before you joined us. Your perspective would be invaluable."

"If you like."

The music started up with purpose again, and Vivienne called out instructions to her pupils. Olgierd faced Leliana and bowed as she sketched a curtsey in her chainmail tabard.

No, even if Solas was right and his mistakes were about to catch up with him, he'd never regret Josephine. Not while he still had breath left in his body.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun history fact: a 16th century French priest named Jehan Tabourot wrote a book on social dances under the pseudonym Thoinot Arbeau. In his book, "Orchésographie," he writes about social value of dancing, and how it reveals "whether lovers are in good health and sound of limb," and that "a mistress is won by the good temper and grace displayed while dancing." *Jazz hands* the more you know!


	59. The Game and the Players

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ciri and the Inquisition's delegation arrive at the Winter Palace. Grand Duke Gaspard makes a memorable first impression, and Ciri finally learns the identity of the bard who's plagued the Inquisition for nearly a year.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> beta-read by brightspot149, with a last minute pinch-hit by BattleFries. Thank you both!
> 
> Some lines were taken and altered from the WEWH quest. If you recognize it, it's not mine.

The gates to the Winter Palace swung open, and Ciri's honor guard marched through ahead of her. Behind her, her advisors, companions, and the Trevelyan siblings stood still, a small, dark sea of ruby red and near-black. She quelled the urge to fuss with an invisible wrinkle on her skirt and strode forward as the honor guard parted and struck their chests with their right fists.

Throughout the meticulously groomed garden, masked faces turned her way, and conversations turned to speculative whispers. A man in a gold half-mask broke from the crowd and strutted confidently toward her. He wore what appeared to be formal armor made of the hide of some exotic beast, with the outer point of the couter guarding his elbows dangerously sharp and pointed. His graying hair was shaved close to his head, and his pale, square jaw bore heavy stubble.

"Inquisitor Morhen," he greeted her, inclining his head ever-so-slightly. "It is an honor to meet you at last." Blue eyes so light as to be nearly colorless looked her up and down speculatively. "From the stories we heard out of the Western Approach, I expected a woman ten feet tall who breathes fire. But you do not disappoint."

She'd seen herself in a full-length mirror before they'd left the Inquisition's guest quarters, and she knew full well the image she projected tonight. Her gown looked like something that could have been pulled from Francesca Findabair's wardrobe. The deep green skirt and long sleeves, the silvery-white underskirt, and the silver embroidery all spoke of a certain delicate elegance that was unmistakably elven. The dainty white slippers, beaded with seed pearls, practically shone in the moonlight. Leliana had been very particular about getting the slippers absolutely perfect, and Ciri could find no fault with her spymaster's judgment.

She had to resist the temptation to fiddle with the pins in her hair, which was back in its elaborate braided updo from her last soiree. Emeralds hung from her ears and around her neck – the latter a loan from the Trevelyans, and out of Iori Trevelyan's personal collection at that. The perfume dabbed behind her ears smelled, according to Josephine, like northern Rivain, with its orange groves, jasmine orchids, and sandalwood trees.

For just a moment, she'd caught a glimpse of herself from her good side in the mirror. The most familiar stranger had looked back at her, a worldly, poised lady in a silver crown, tall and straight-backed, regal and beautiful, with eyes that were still too green to meet for long. Then she'd turned and the spell was broken. The silver crown was lamplight in her prematurely white hair. She was lean and hard, not soft with the curves of a lady of the court. And below her blazing eyes sat a scar to rival Queen Meve's. Striking now, not beautiful, a Witcher peering down a path not walked and seeing what might have been.

But she was still straight-backed and tall, still striking, in a gown and gems fit for the princess she used to be, and she nodded back with a slight smile. "Grand Duke Gaspard. Thank you for your generous invitation."

Grand Duke Gaspard's mask had a curious shape to it, she observed. Two sharp points extended down from the middle of the half-mask’s cheeks to the top of his jaw, lending it an almost predatory air. She knew it and Grand Duchess Florianne's mask matched the tan line of the assassin from Val Royeaux. But so did the Doucy family mask, and countless other commoners' masks.

It wasn't definitive proof of their involvement.

"How could I not, after your efforts on my behalf in the Exalted Plains?" he asked, the both of them well aware of who the original request for aid had come from. "Imagine how much more you could accomplish with the resources and support of the rightful emperor of Orlais behind you!"

Ciri took a gamble and glanced playfully behind him. "Is he ten feet tall and fire-breathing as well? I suppose his entrance will be suitably dramatic."

He went still for a breath, and just as she feared she'd misstepped, he burst into laughter. "How droll, Inquisitor! Come, walk with me."

They began to stroll into the manicured garden together, the grand duke pointedly ignoring some groups of courtiers and nodding courteously to others. Footsteps sounded behind her as the rest of her party followed her in at a distance.

"We could be of great help to one another, you and I," Grand Duke Gaspard said as they stepped just out of hearing range of another cluster of courtiers. "I am not a man who forgets his friends."

Ciri raised an eyebrow at him. "Skipping the pleasantries, Your Grace?"

"I despise the Game and its tiresome duplicities," he said, his voice sincere and slightly irritated. "You are a Marcher, a knight's daughter. I do not doubt you will appreciate candor."

She wished he wasn't wearing a mask. By all the accounts Josephine, Maxwell, and Leliana had put together, Gaspard was an accomplished player of the Game. If he sounded sincere, then he was a good liar. She'd need to keep her wits about her.

"Candor seems to be a rare thing in these circles," Ciri said. She kept her tone light and pleasant. "But if anyone would treat me honorably, it would be the head of the chevalier order."

His eyes barely flickered at that, and he smiled and inclined his head again. "Of course. And as an honorable chevalier, speaking to an honorable woman, I have a matter to bring to your attention. Something you might look into for the both of us."

Ciri gestured for him to continue, wondering what his angle was.

"That so-called 'ambassador,' the elven woman – Briala. I suspect she intends to interfere with tonight’s negotiations.” He tugged at the edge of one of his gloves idly as his surprisingly well-formed lips drew into a small frown. "My people have found her 'ambassadorial retinue' all over the outer walls. I would not put sabotage past such...people."

"You wouldn't be pointing me in their direction with an ulterior motive, would you, Your Grace?" she murmured.

"Candor and honor, Inquisitor," he reminded her gravely.

"Of course." She held his gaze for a second longer than was strictly polite, then smiled at him, still light and pleasant. "I'll look into it."

He said the word 'ambassador' like Keira said 'rat': with an inescapable tinge of disgust. Ciri couldn't help the feeling that there was another word he wished to substitute in its place, something far more degrading.

"But enough of such serious talk," he said, smiling back. "Are you prepared to scandalize the court by appearing at the side of a wicked usurper, my lady?"

"Are you sure I'm not the more scandalous of the two of us, given the rumors about me?"

Grand Duke Gaspard laughed quietly, turning his colorless eyes her way and looking her up and down again. "The court can have such provincial attitudes toward the elf-blooded, but yours is a cut above the rabble, I hear. As for that unfortunate rumor placing you in my family on the wrong side of the sheets…"

He reached out with a gloved hand and rested it on her shoulder. From the outside, it no doubt looked friendly, a familiar touch. But it was a heavy weight, and she stilled beneath it, unwilling to break away and set back the Inquisition's political efforts by showing disunity with their host so early.

"Adopted," he mused, "and with such coloring. It's little wonder your denials haven't met with much success here. But never fear, Inquisitor. We take care of our own."

He patted her shoulder with a wink and strode off, leaving her to stare at his back.

_That was a threat._

She took a breath and pulled her mother and grandmother's confidence around her, squaring her shoulders and turning back to the garden.

"So that's the Inquisitor," a woman's voice said quietly from several feet away. "She certainly seems to have embraced her heritage."

A man answered her. "Better a human with Elvhen blood than a rabbit, Nathalie. The little beasts might get _ideas_ , otherwise."

Nathalie scoffed. "You didn't hear Vicomte le Coq that day. 'A rabbit with docked ears is still a rabbit.' Odious little man, but he has a point."

"Hm. Perhaps."

Nathalie and her companion wandered off, their voices fading as they went. Another voice caught her attention from a different direction, the man’s tone scandalously amused.

“Is that the bastard?”

“Shh! Don’t say it so loudly! Not where one of Her Majesty’s people might hear.”

“I’m not afraid of Celene’s reprisals. She only kills rabbits.”

Ciri drifted off, keeping her face clear and untroubled. She went past the bubbling fountain and up the elegantly curved staircase only to stop and smile at the sight of Owain waiting at the top. Monsieur le Mire and his assistants had put him in a Free Marches style silk doublet and breeches, all somber dark gray with dramatic accents of red, and it set off his broad shoulders and trim waist beautifully. He bowed over her hand and tucked it into the crook of his elbow, falling into step with her as they walked down the covered hall together.

"Friendly crowd," she commented softly.

"'Ser Trevelyan, zhat blemish een your family tree ees elven, no?'" he mocked under his breath. "'Forgive me, but by your size, one might theenk eet was Qunari!'"

She leaned into him for a brief moment. "Small, petty people insult and pick at things to force them to fit more comfortably in their worldview. It makes them feel better about their own small, petty lives."

He rested his hand over hers. "You've run into it already, too?"

"Mm-hm." She pulled away gently and looked up at him. "You should let Leliana and the others know – Gaspard threatened me. Very politely, _very_ subtly, but it was unmistakable."

"We'll watch him," he assured her. "And his sister, too, if it comes to it."

"Good."

"Josephine's just inside the entrance to the vestibule," he said. "She wants a last word before you're thrown to the wolves."

"I'll make sure to speak with her. And the others?"

"Circulating. _Charming_ ," he added. "Whatever comes, we'll have the court in our corner by the end of the night."

"Varric should speak with Duke Cyril, and Triss and Evelyn with Comtesse Montbelliard," Ciri suggested. "If there's an opportunity for Josephine to arrange a game of cards with Marquis Renaud, she ought to take it. I don't know if it would benefit us more to win or lose. Someone should ask Comte Lothair about his coursing hounds – not Cullen; he's too Ferelden and I doubt he'd be able to hide his preference for Mabari. Have him speak with Marquis Etienne instead. Vivienne has an established relationship with Lord Laurent that we can use. Maxwell might be a good choice to approach Duke Germain."

"I'll take care of it. Save me a dance?"

"As many as I can."

He leaned down to kiss her cheek and stepped back, honest appreciation written across his face. “You smell amazing.”

“At the price we paid, I’d better,” she said dryly. She half thought the cost was so high because of the gossip Monsieur de Genellen had doled out.

"Have I told you yet that you look beautiful?"

"Twice," she said, going up on tiptoe to kiss him back. "And you're still incredibly handsome."

"Must be the Qunari blood," he quipped.

"Don't say that too loudly," she warned him with a wry smile. "You know how rumors spread with these people."

"All too well, unfortunately. I'll see you inside."

He left to head up another flight of stairs, no doubt in search of one of the people she'd mentioned. She turned as well to cross the landing and head toward the massive wrought iron gates covering the door to the palace. The guards flanking them bowed their heads and pulled them open, and she stepped through.

Josephine awaited her inside, pacing nervously. She halted as she caught sight of Ciri and came to her side at once, taking a slow, deliberate breath.

"Owain said you wanted a word with me," Ciri said.

"Just a few."

Josephine pressed something small and hard into her hand, and Ciri looked down to see a gold token the size of the tip of her thumb, a stylized halla engraved across its surface. On the back, she found a rampant lion.

"What's this?"

"Enchanted coins that servants and trusted guests use to access warded rooms," Josephine told her. "Sera got a hold of one for you. You may need it tonight."

Ciri nodded and tucked it up her sleeve carefully. "Where did our armor and weapons end up?"

"In a chest in the kitchen off the gallery. Sera swears no one has used it in days, so it should be safe to change in there. Here’s the key to get in."

"You seem…" Ciri paused and reached for her hand to squeeze it gently. "More ill at ease than I thought you'd be."

"My sister Yvette is here," Josephine said in a hushed voice, squeezing back. Her eyes held a wealth of poorly concealed worry. "For her, the world is a place of song and flirtation – nothing bad ever happens in her life. She has yet to grow up. I fear her getting caught in the middle of all this."

"We'll keep her out of it as best we can," Ciri promised.

"Thank you." She pulled her hand away and took another deep breath. "Be very careful how you address the court. Your words, your tone of voice, who you give attention to, and who you snub…all of these things will be a matter of life and death tonight. I know you have some training…"

Ciri glanced swiftly around the small hallway to reassure herself they were alone. "In matters of state, not this 'Game' the Orlesians play. But my mother is a good enough example to follow tonight."

"You will do fine," Josephine said.

To Ciri's ears, it sounded more like her friend was reassuring herself. But she nodded and smiled nonetheless. "We should go in. We don't want to keep them waiting too long."

"Maker, no," Josephine said with a wince. "To arrive late to the announcement of the guests would be… Well. Let's say we would impress no one in this crowd."

They proceeded up the broad staircase together, past several more gossiping nobles. Two of them held a hushed conversation speculating on what the Inquisition's support for Gaspard might mean for Celene, and Ciri just barely kept her shoulders from tensing.

The trap needed to be sprung, that much she knew. But likewise, she'd handed Gaspard exactly what he'd wanted.

By the banister to the left, she spotted Cassandra and Cullen standing together. Somehow their discomfort with their circumstances had managed to translate into a remote sternness that they both wore almost as well as their formal clothes. And by the banister to the right, Maxwell and Evelyn engaged in light, easy conversation with a woman with dark olive skin who fairly sparkled with gold at her fingers, ears, and throat.

Grand Duke Gaspard stood by the door to the ballroom, his arms crossed and a small, satisfied smirk playing across his mouth. Ciri exchanged a surreptitious look with Josephine and joined him.

"There you are," he said, giving her another tiny incline of his head. "The herald is just about to start announcing the guests."

She wrapped Lady Yennefer's confidence around her like a cloak and gave him a long, cool look, aware he was attempting to put her on her back foot. "'About to' isn't the same as 'started already.'"

His smirk deepened, and he swept his arm before them as the doors opened. "Come, Inquisitor. Aren't you curious what the tales of you have led to?"

He didn't wait for her response; instead, he turned on his heel and strutted through the door at a measured pace, slow enough that she wasn't left behind. In the corners of her vision, she picked up red and charcoal moving her way, and she held her head up as she kept pace with Gaspard.

Inside, crystal chandeliers hung from a high ceiling, reflecting lights off a polished marble floor twice the size of Skyhold's main hall. To either side, courtiers crowded by the railings, their attention split between the new arrivals and the two small figures at the far end.

The herald approached with a half-unfurled scroll and gestured silently for Gaspard to descend the stairs and cross the long marble floor first. The grand duke winked at her again and threw his shoulders back, continuing his proud strut toward the dais at the far end of the ballroom.

"Presenting His Grace, Grand Duke Gaspard de Chalons of Verchiel," the herald called out. " _Premier Chevalier_ of Orlais' honorable Order of Chevaliers."

The herald nodded at her when Gaspard had crossed a quarter of the way, and she descended the steps as well. As her foot touched the marble floor, the herald's voice rang out.

"And accompanying him, Her Worship, Inquisitor Cirilla Morhen." Ciri stopped to curtsey to the figures awaiting them, sweeping her skirts to the side and lowering her head gracefully, then rose to continue. The herald's words filled the air as she maintained her steady approach.

"The Hand of the Maker, the vanquisher of the rebel mages of Ferelden, shepherd of the wayward Wardens, redeemer of the irredeemable, reborn blood of the immortal Elvhen."

She didn't let her smooth face falter at the patter of utter _nonsense_ , didn't let her hands fist at her sides. 'Vanquisher of the rebel mages' – that could alienate Comtesse Montbelliard and other mage sympathizers. And 'reborn blood of the immortal Elvhen,' on top of being a lie, would ruin her ability to be cordial with Briala, and put up the backs of the racists in the court.

_Clever_.

"Ser Cullen Stanton Rutherford of Honnleath, High Commander of the Inquisition's forces…Lady Leliana, Nightingale of the Imperial Court and veteran of the Fifth Blight…Lady Josephine Cherette Montilyet of Antiva City, Lead Ambassador of the Inquisition…High Chancellor Roderick Asignon of Val Royeaux, Religious Advisor to the Inquisition..."

The herald called out name after name.

"Ser Owain Trevelyan, Chief Military Strategist of the Inquisition, and second son of the noble Trevelyan family of Ostwick."

"Ser Raúl de Medina, commander of the Inquisition's military efforts in Nevarra and Antiva."

“Triss Merigold of the Starkhaven Circle of Magi, the Free Mages’ liaison to the Inquisition and co-creator of the lyrium cure.”

Cassandra…Vivienne…Varric…Maxwell…Dorian…on the list went, until it ended humbly with a simple "Olgierd von Everec of Denerim and Hunter Fell" and, infuriatingly, "the Inquisitor's elven servant, Solas." No mention of Cole or Sera, she noted. That made sense. They had another part to play tonight.

They fanned out behind her, and she felt her mingled outrage and worry start to dissipate with the wall of charcoal and crimson at her back, cut by a single red and white Chantry habit.

Ciri curtseyed again, studying the empress from beneath lowered lashes. Now that she could see her clearly, she saw what the grand duke and Marshal Proulx had meant. Empress Celene, resplendent in a gown of deep sapphire blue with an ornamental gold piece attached at the back radiating out like the rays of a sun, did share Ciri's coloring. Or some approximation of it, at least. She had white-blonde hair worn in a braided twist, and her skin was naturally pale below her gold half-mask.

Beside her and slightly behind stood an older woman, middle-aged at the youngest, with the same fair hair. Her mask was a match to Gaspard's, and the standing collar of her gown flared up dramatically behind her head with ribbed, stiffened silk. It appeared hand-painted to resemble the edge of a butterfly's wing.

Grand Duke Gaspard tipped his head up to the dais, pointedly refusing to bow. "Cousin. My dear sister."

In contrast, Empress Celene lowered into an entirely correct curtsey for a head of state to a peer of the realm: shallow, short, and with her head upright. But a great deal more polite than her cousin.

A point in the Game scored.

"Grand Duke," she said sweetly, "We are always honored when your presence graces Our court."

Rebutting the familiar address and use of the majestic plural. Another point.

"Don't waste my time with pleasantries, Celene," Grand Duke Gaspard retorted. "We have business to conclude."

Reestablishing the family tie and _scolding_ the empress in front of her court. Point to the grand duke – or a point from the empress.

Empress Celene appeared unperturbed by the calculated show of rudeness and lightly chided him back. "We will meet for the negotiations after We have seen to Our other guests."

Grand Duke Gaspard lowered himself into a flourishing bow that somehow oozed sarcasm with every gesture, and as he came back up, he flicked his eyes to Ciri and smirked again before turning to leave. "Inquisitor."

"Lady Inquisitor," Empress Celene said in greeting. "We welcome you to the Winter Palace. Allow Us to present Our cousin, Grand Duchess Florianne of Lydes, without whom this gathering would never have been possible."

"Your Imperial Majesty," Ciri said with yet another curtsey. "Your Grace."

"What a pleasure to meet the woman whom all Orlais has been speaking of at last," Grand Duchess Florianne said. "When my brother said you'd agreed to accompany him, I was delighted. The famed Inquisition, here at my party." Her lips, so very similar to Gaspard's, fell into an identical smirk. "We will certainly have to speak later, Inquisitor."

She backed away from the dais and fell into shadow, leaving the attention on Empress Celene. A pregnant silence fell for a long moment as the empress gazed down at Ciri, her blue eyes searching her face for something. Similarities?

Did she truly believe that damnable rumor?

"Our court is refreshed by your presence, Inquisitor," Empress Celene said at last, “much as a summer’s day is refreshed by a cool breeze.”

Ciri reached for her parents' easy word games with each other and came away with a wisp of an idea. "There's nowhere a cool breeze would rather waft on a summer's day than your magnificent court, Your Imperial Majesty."

Empress Celene smiled slightly. "You are too kind, Inquisitor. We have followed your Inquisition's exploits very closely. Your victory in the Western Approach made for a thrilling tale." She gave Ciri an inscrutable look. "And your efforts in the Exalted Plains are to be commended, of course. We’re certain you will appreciate a night of beauty instead of blood, however. A paltry thank you from a grateful nation."

_Beauty at a masquerade held a mere stone’s throw from a massacre you ordered – in a palace built on stolen land._

"Halamshiral is indeed beautiful," Ciri said instead. "I find language inadequate in the face of the splendor of your palace."

"A sentiment many express on their first visit," Empress Celene replied, smiling faintly again. "May this be only one of many. Feel free to enjoy the pleasures of the Winter Palace, Inquisitor. We look forward to watching you dance."

Ciri curtseyed a final time and turned to head up the stairs to one of the balconies overlooking the ballroom floor.

"A moment, Inquisitor Morhen."

A polite voice caught her attention, and she looked over to see a well-dressed man in a silver mask edged with tiny blue gems, a small gold mustache resting beneath the sculpted nose. His dark hair was thick and hung near to his jaw, and his eyes were a close match in color to the gemstones. Leliana and Vivienne's lessons on the nobles' masks came to her in a flash, and she gave him a genuine smile.

"Duke Cyril. It's wonderful to finally meet you in person."

"Likewise, Lady Inquisitor, though I regret we could not have attended together."

To her relief, he didn't sound accusatory. There were too many ears nearby to answer with any degree of honesty, so she just let her agreement show on her face for a bare second then hid it away behind a pleasantly neutral expression.

"But I wished to thank you for all that you've done for the empire," he continued, bowing shallowly over her hand, "and for me. Chateau Haine would have been overrun with those monstrous wyverns had you not sent your soldiers. You have my most sincere condolences for the loss incurred on my behalf."

"It was the Inquisition's honor to aid you, Your Grace. Your friendship and support have been invaluable."

"Perhaps we might strengthen those ties of friendship later," he suggested with a friendly smile. "We younger members of the Council of Heralds often retreat to a parlor off the guest wing garden for a game and a drink. Do stop by to meet Marquis Renaud and Comtesse Solange before the night is through."

"Shall I bring Varric Tethras?" she asked and watched his smile widen.

"By all means. I have a question or two for him on Donnen's fate after his latest novel, and Solange was infuriated by his cliffhanger in Swords and Shields. I know Solange is also quite interested in meeting your liaison, Triss Merigold."

“I’ll let her know,” Ciri told him.

He paused and lowered his voice. "You should speak with Sister Nightingale."

It wasn't a good place to ask why, so she just nodded. "I'd intended to."

"Very good. We'll speak again soon. Do take care, Lady Inquisitor, and enjoy yourself."

He bowed courteously and left, but she wasn’t alone for long. Leliana caught her attention with a low flick of her fingers and fell into step with her, slipping her arm through hers.

"Walk this way," she murmured. "Fewer people will hear anything of import if we keep moving, and I know a good spot where we can stop to speak."

Ciri obediently let her steer her from the ballroom as she kept up a stream of light, inconsequential chatter about the clothing and shoes that had caught her eyes. She found she could contribute to it in places after nearly a year in Thedas, though her opinions on ladies' fashion in Orlais were still less than generous.

"And the grand duchess' gown made quite a statement," Leliana said lightly, finally stopping in an out of the way nook. "That standing collar is certainly unique."

"I didn't think much of the ruched bodice, but the collar was impressive," Ciri allowed. "The silk looked hand-painted."

"Yes, to appear as a butterfly's wing." Leliana fell silent for a moment, long enough that Ciri began to wonder if she was lost in thought.

"Leliana?"

"Do you know what the Orlesian word for butterfly is, Ciri?"

"No," she said, and at Leliana's raised eyebrow, she stifled a groan of dismay. "Oh. _No_. Really?"

Suddenly the idea that the de Chalons were behind Papillon made all too much sense.

"She and her proxies are too widely known by her bard name for this to be anything but a declaration," Leliana said quietly. "We may have come to stop Celene's assassination, but I have a terrible feeling that you are not meant to leave here alive."

"Well," Ciri sighed. "That complicates things."


	60. Spies and the Council

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ciri delves deeper into the political waters of Halamshiral and finds them murky. The Council of Heralds offers unexpected insight. Celene's mysterious court enchanter provides a key and some cryptic words.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> beta-read by brightspot149. Thank you!
> 
> A little bit of canon dialogue from WEWH used in this chapter. If you recognize it, it isn't mine.

Ciri took a moment to let the jolt of unease from Leliana’s words pass. Then she nodded and forced herself to relax.

“Do you think Florianne and Gaspard are targeting Celene as well?” she asked.

Leliana looked thoughtful. “It’s always possible. Gaspard is said to be a stickler for the chevalier code of conduct, though he no doubt knows how to use it to his advantage. He's faced her in war, and played the Game in ways that made her lose face with her court, but sending a bard after his own blood? That would be too underhanded for him. I expect he has a plan or two up his sleeve that don't involve assassination. Who knows? Perhaps he even intends to triumph legitimately in the negotiations tonight."

“You’d understand the chevaliers better than I do,” Ciri said. “If not Florianne, then who?”

Leliana lowered her voice further. “There is a possibility I’ve been considering. Celene has an occult advisor, an apostate who took on the position of Imperial Court enchanter when Vivienne left. She is ruthless, cunning and manipulative, a practitioner of magics many would find odd or distasteful.”

That sounded promising. “How did you come to learn of her? Is she with the Venatori?”

“I traveled with her during the Fifth Blight,” Leliana said. “Her name is Morrigan. As to her allegiances, I suspect her only true allegiance is to herself, but she may ally with any who offer her arcane knowledge. The Venatori seems like a stretch, it’s true, but besides Morrigan, I can’t think of any other leads who would be present tonight. Not after we dealt with that mess in the Lake Celestine region.”

“Gaspard pointed me in Briala’s direction, but I find it hard to credit.” Ciri hmmed under her breath. “Morrigan, you said? What would make the empress choose an apostate as Vivienne’s replacement?”

“She has always been fascinated by mysticism and the occult, much to the Chantry’s disapproval. If Morrigan offered her answers, Celene likely ushered her into the palace herself.” Leliana frowned. “You’re right about Briala. There is a betrayal there between the empress and her one-time spymaster, but I don’t believe Briala would have a hand in Celene’s assassination in retaliation. She needs the empress to survive in order to wrest concessions from her for the elves’ wellbeing.”

“Any suggestions for where to start?” Ciri asked.

“Half of the palace is closed for renovations, notably the servants’ wing and the royal wing,” Leliana said. “Yet Sera reports that she’s seen people going in and out at odd hours. And if Morrigan has been frequenting any part of the palace, it will be the library.”

“Send Sera my way,” Ciri told her. “Cole, too, if you see him.”

They changed the subject back to fashion smoothly and chatted for a few more minutes before parting at the ballroom doors. Leliana slipped inside and Ciri, alone for the first time since arriving, scanned the vestibule for a friendly face in the sea of masks and found precious few. Dark red hair above a charcoal dress caught her eye, and she smiled in relief and made her way toward Triss.

“Enjoying yourself yet?” Triss asked with a return smile, tucking her arm through Ciri’s and strolling deeper into the vestibule.

“Ever so much,” she said mockingly. “The grand duke’s sister is the infamous bard behind that assassination attempt, half the people here think I’m either an upstart bastard Valmont, a ‘rabbit,’ or both, and Leliana thinks the empress’ own court enchanter could be involved in the plot against Celene.”

Ciri felt Triss tighten her hold on her arm as she steered her into another empty corner.

“One problem at a time,” Triss said. “The grand duchess is Papillon?”

“And plotting something with Gaspard.”

“Right.” Triss straightened, her smile disappearing at once. “I’ll stay in the ballroom and keep an eye on her. She won’t get the chance to even lay a finger on you.”

Ciri felt tension release from between her shoulders as a knot of worry dissolved in her stomach. “Thank you.”

“I can’t do much about the rumors, but I can be as charming as possible and give all the credit to you,” Triss continued. “I’ll pass the word around that that’s the plan for the night. And this magical advisor…”

“Court enchanter,” Ciri corrected her. “I don’t think the position is quite the same as yours. Leliana says her name is Morrigan, and that she knows her from the Fifth Blight. She says she’s skilled in ‘distasteful, odd’ magic and is ‘ruthless, cunning, and manipulative.’ If you come across her, try to figure out her allegiances, and stop her if she’s involved in all this.”

“That shouldn’t be a problem,” Triss said. “Anything else?”

“Yes,” Ciri said, remembering Duke Cyril’s words. “Comtesse Solange Montbelliard wants to speak with you. I’ve heard she’s very sympathetic to the mage cause, so that’s likely what it’s about. Since you’re staying in the ballroom, I’ll tell her where to find you, if that works for you?”

“I think I can manage to take an eye off the grand duchess for a few seconds to advance mage rights in Thedas with Orlesian nobility,” Triss said with a small smirk. “Go. I have your back here.”

“Thank you,” Ciri said again.

Triss let her arm go and strode away back to the ballroom with a dramatic whirl of her dark skirts. Ciri took a moment to center herself, then set off toward the gallery at a measured pace.

_Time to get to work._

“Cole,” she murmured to the empty air, “are you there?”

A slightly baffled voice answered from just behind her. “Where else would I be?”

“Good. Will you please look around the entrance to the servants’ wing for hints as to who’s been coming and going? Don’t go too far in without backup. If you find anything, bring it to me and to Leliana discreetly.”

“Spies and secrets,” he whispered. “Not just us. Some of them want to hurt you.”

“That’s always been a risk,” she whispered back.

He didn’t reply, but there was an emptiness to the air behind her, and she moved on, certain Cole had left to do as she asked. She stopped briefly in the gallery to exchange pleasantries with Lord Geffray Villon of Arlesans, one of the two acquaintances she had made at Vivienne’s soiree. He introduced her with all apparent delight to his older brother and mother, beaming behind his mask and bowing over her hand.

“Vicomtesse Elodie is around somewhere,” Lord Geffray told her with an idle wave of his hand, “though do take care, Your Worship. That strutting cockerel from Val Royeaux is here as well, and he hasn’t forgiven you how your encounter ended.”

Ciri shook her head. “He’s welcome to try his luck again. I’m sure it will go just as well for him as the first time. Don’t you think?”

Lord Geffray’s brother chuckled and tipped his goblet to her in a friendly toast. "Some people aren't blessed with an abundance of wit and require multiple lessons to benefit from them."

“Precisely.”

She smiled and bade them farewell, buoyed by her first success with Celene’s courtiers. Ahead, in a dark corner of the gallery, a trio of servants caught her eye, and she slowed her pace.

There was nothing inherently suspicious about the way they were trading food and drink from one tray to another. But they placed each glass and plate so slowly and methodically, and they whispered as they did, with a worried tension lining the unmasked halves of their faces.

And while her choppy blonde hair was covered by a dark wrap, Ciri would recognize that tall, lanky frame anywhere.

Sera looked up and met her eyes. She muttered something to the two servants and beckoned Ciri over surreptitiously.

Ciri hesitated for just a moment, then swept over. “I don’t suppose you have anything good to drink?” she asked the servant with the drinks tray. Softly, she added, “Can you investigate the library, Sera? Leliana thinks the new court enchanter might be a suspect.”

One of Sera’s two companions, a rosy-cheeked young elven man a few inches shorter than her, obligingly began to describe the drinks on offer as a cover for their conversation. The other servant, a slender elven woman with dark brown eyes, watched Ciri silently as Sera nodded and replied just as quietly.

“Easy enough. Trellis in the garden I can shimmy up. No one notices the servants. If I find anythin’, you want me to bring it to you or Leliana?”

“Both, ideally, but me first.”

“–Flames of Our Lady in a most attractive shade of blood red, with notes –”

“I’d also like to speak to Briala,” Ciri said beneath the recitation. “She wasn’t in the ballroom for the introductions.”

The woman scoffed under her breath. “She wouldn’t have been. It was a big enough concession to make her an ambassador.”

Sera looked strangely hesitant. “Ciri –”

“Yes?”

“…Never mind.” She shook her head. “Not the time for it.”

“–From the Arling of West Hill, oak-aged for five years, notes of blackcurrant with –”

“Briala says you’re with us,” the woman said suddenly.

Ciri made to give her easy agreement, then paused as the words caught up to her. They weren’t with her. _She_ was with _them_.

She remembered the way the servants had been so helpful at Vivienne’s soiree. How the only people who’d come out looking decent in Mihris’ tale had been Briala and Felassan. How Briala had aided her family and friends in the dark future.

“I stand with Briala,” Ciri said quietly.

The woman nodded in acceptance. “A couple of ours went missing in the servants’ wing. Briala went to investigate. Something’s happening in there.”

“As soon as I can get away, I’ll join her,” Ciri promised. She acutely regretted how much attention was on her tonight.

“–A most delicate wine, often described as a wistful spirit. Light in the nose, and a comfort on the tongue –”

“I’ll have the Rowan’s Rose. Thank you.”

He presented her with a stemmed glass half-full of wine the color of the palest blush pink. “Inquisitor.”

“When I find Briala, who should I say sent me?”

“Sophie and Lem,” the woman said. “Good hunting.”

Ciri raised her glass at them in acknowledgment before leaving to go find another courtier to charm.

Instead of an Orlesian, she found the Iron Bull and Solas lounging near each other against the long wall, far enough apart that they couldn’t converse, with a noticeable bubble of space around them. Both watched the masked crowd drift past with keen eyes.

She approached Solas first, and he smiled at her in welcome. There was an edge to it that surprised her slightly. “I do adore the heady blend of power, intrigue, danger, and sex that permeates these events,” he said, smile sharpening.

That didn’t sound as if it came from secondhand Fade dreams. Yet what high society events could an elf expect to attend as a guest?

This wasn’t the place to press him on it. Moreover, she expected he hadn’t meant to show so much of his hand – nor did he realize yet that he had.

“Are there many such parties in the Fade?” she asked instead.

“Anything where people’s emotions run high, or events make an impact on history, will be recorded in the Fade,” he told her. “A masquerade such as this has the potential for both. I’ve seen countless such displays in my journeys in the Fade. The powerful have always been the same. Only the costumes change.”

She couldn’t disagree with that.

“Are you being treated well?”

“I am invisible,” he said, “as was my intent. I can see more clearly with the eyes of the court ignoring me. And the servants are kind enough to continue to refill my glass.” He shook his head. “It is a mystery how the nobles of Orlais manage to live their entire lives ignorant of the fact that their servants have an entire society of their own.”

“A kinder sentiment than you expressed in Dirthavaren,” Ciri said, gently prying.

“Regardless of my feelings on the city elves at large, the way many of them have organized under Briala is nothing short of admirable,” he told her. “They understand that they cannot wait for Celene or Gaspard to give them justice and dignity. They must demand it.”

“I agree,” she said. She took a sip of her wine and wrinkled her nose. It tasted like water that had been told extensively what wine was supposed to taste like – ‘delicate’ was a generous description. “If you learn anything, pass it on to Sera or Cole. And keep an eye on Florianne and whoever she interacts with. She’s Papillon, apparently, and Leliana thinks she and Gaspard don’t intend to let me leave here alive.”

“A mistake on their part,” Solas murmured.

“They’ll learn.”

She reached out and squeezed his hand briefly before moving on to join the Iron Bull. He shuffled over a few inches to make room for her by his little table, not taking his eyes off the courtiers.

“Shouldn’t you be rubbing elbows, Boss?” he said in a low voice. “Making friends with the locals?”

“I have an invitation to a private gathering I’ll follow up on soon. But I was hoping the professional spy might have some insight for me.”

His horned head tilted slightly. “Five factions here tonight. The obvious ones are the empress’ and the grand duke’s supporters. Then you have the ones who seem neutral but are looking for an advantage in the political instability, and will jump ship as soon as there’s a winner. A smaller number really are neutral. Powerful enough to stay that way, too. Not too popular with the first three factions. Finally, there’s the ambassadorial retinue. Nobody else likes them. They threaten the status quo too much.”

“Which faction would the Qun want to see come out on top?” she asked under her breath.

He gave her a sidelong look, and after several weighty seconds, said quietly, “Gaspard would be a good choice for fighting Corypheus. And after we’ve dealt with the red Templars and the Venatori, the new emperor would make a push to expand the empire. Ferelden and Nevarra would be weakened and distracted – especially Nevarra. Tevinter might attack Nevarra from the other side of the border, drawing some of their forces away from Seheron. The Antaam could use the distraction to launch their own invasion against the Imperium, and from there, Rivain and Antiva.”

He stopped and shrugged, picking up a glass that looked absurdly tiny in his hand and taking a hearty swallow. “But what do I know? I’m not the Arishok.”

That sounded like a plausible explanation for how the Qun might have come to invade the northern countries in the dark future. With Celene assassinated, had Gaspard taken the throne and turned his ambitions outward? Or had it lain unclaimed, with the empire vulnerable to Corypheus and other enemies?

Regardless, she knew she couldn’t trust Gaspard. And he wasn’t a man she’d want on the throne in any case.

She changed the subject. “Have you learned anything from your people watching?”

He gestured subtly with his glass to a man walking down the hall. “See him? He’s a Council of Heralds emissary. Poor guy’s been stuck delivering Gaspard’s death threats to the Council. He threatened to burn them all in their homes if they didn’t vote in his favor during the negotiations.”

“Even Duke Germain? His uncle?”

“All of them,” the Iron Bull confirmed.

“So much for his chevalier honor,” Ciri muttered.

“I get the feeling that their code of honor is negotiable,” the Iron Bull said.

She could have guessed as much, given the barbarity of their ‘graduation ritual.’

“Anything else?” she asked.

“Yeah, one other thing.” The Iron Bull’s one eye fell on a pair of elves at the far end of the hall. They were better dressed than the servants, though not nearly so opulently as the Orlesian nobles. “I caught wind of something from the ambassador’s people. She and the empress used to be involved. Long-term, hidden romance sort of deal. Some of Briala’s retinue are afraid she’ll falter at the negotiations if Celene tries to rekindle things. Others want her to use it to drag the empress’ reputation through the mud.”

Leliana had mentioned that in their final meeting before leaving for Halamshiral, but Ciri hadn’t expected it to be known widely enough in Briala’s retinue for there to be speculation.

“I thought it wasn’t common knowledge,” she said.

“I doubt it is, or the empress wouldn’t have let Briala anywhere near the peace talks.”

That their former relationship went beyond employer and spymaster put an extra layer of betrayal on the alienage massacre, and a cruel twist to the fact that Celene had had Briala’s parents killed in a staged assassination attempt. Would Briala reconcile with the woman who ordered the deaths of thousands of elves? Of her parents?

Ciri hoped not. But feelings were messy, and relationships were complicated.

“Something you can use?” the Iron Bull asked her.

Ciri shook her head slowly. “Maybe. If only to help Briala. I doubt she wants their past connection getting out any more than the empress does.”

“Picked your faction, Boss?” His eye was sharp, but his voice held no judgment.

She held his gaze and took a slow sip of her terrible, watery wine. “Thank you for the information, Iron Bull. Sera or Cole will be by soon when it’s time to leave the party for the servants’ wing.”

“You got it.”

Ciri left her disappointing wine on the table beside the Iron Bull and slipped out the door to the garden in search of the parlor Duke Cyril had spoken of. A high voice called out as soon as the door closed behind her.

“My lady! My lady Inquisitor!”

Three identically dressed women wearing the same mask and cloth headpiece swept over to intercept her. They curtseyed in unison, and the middle one spoke again.

“The empress has sent us with a message for you, my lady.”

Their half-masks were a match to Empress Celene’s, and while Ciri had firsthand experience with someone wearing a mask that wasn’t theirs, she doubted anyone would be so brazen to do so in front of a dozen courtiers while wearing the Valmont family mask.

“I’m honored to hear from Her Majesty,” Ciri said.

The three women spoke in turn, each of them smoothly picking up where the last one had left off.

“ _You_ honor _us_ , Inquisitor.”

“Empress Celene is eager to support the Hand of the Maker in her holy endeavor against Corypheus.”

“She will pledge the full support of the Empire to the Inquisition as soon as the usurper Gaspard is defeated.”

“A generous offer,” Ciri said, carefully pushing down her revulsion at the thought of working with the empress.

“The empress believes the Inquisition is Thedas’ best hope for peace in these uncertain times,” the middle woman said.

“She looks forward to formalizing the alliance.”

“As soon as Gaspard is out of the way.”

The woman in the middle spoke again. “But we have stolen enough of your time.”

“Please, enjoy the masquerade, Inquisitor.”

They curtseyed again and disappeared out the door – likely to go report to Empress Celene. Ciri wondered how long they’d had to practice speaking in turns before it had come naturally. It was strange and slightly unnerving to hear.

There was only one other door in the garden, just beneath a marble walkway on the far side. The handle gave off a low, staticky crackle of power beneath her palm and refused to turn, and she drew the enchanted coin out from up her sleeve and pressed it against the metal. The static dissipated, and the handle obediently gave way.

She found a charming parlor inside furnished with a few small tables and couches, all in dark, rich woods and soft blue velvets. A minstrel stood in the corner playing a lively tune. Duke Cyril and the gold-draped woman Maxwell and Evelyn had been speaking to were engaged in conversation with Varric, who'd somehow found his way here without her. A man in a cerulean doublet with sandy blond hair sat at one of the tables with a tall brunet in gray silk, their complexions pale below their half-masks. They looked over from behind their cards and inclined their heads at her in greeting, faint smiles crossing their faces.

“Welcome, Inquisitor,” said the man in cerulean. He raised his voice. “Cyril, my friend! Your guest is here.”

Ciri studied their masks as they all turned to greet her and quickly put names to them. The tall one in sober gray was Laurent de Ghislain, here representing his father, Duke Bastien. The blond in the eye-catching blue, with faint lines around his mouth giving away that he was older than the appearance he cultivated, was Marquis Renaud Mantillon, son of the infamous late Dowager Marquise Mantillon. And the woman with the glittering collection of gold jewelry in the dusky pink gown, her black hair braided and coiled behind her head and caught in a gleaming gold net, was Comtesse Solange Montbelliard.

Four of the seven members of the Council of Heralds, or near enough, in Lord Laurent’s case.

“Ah, Lady Inquisitor,” Duke Cyril said cheerfully as he came over to greet her, Comtesse Solange and Varric following in his wake. “I’m delighted you made it to our little gathering. You’ll be relieved to know that ‘Hard in Hightown Three: The Re-Punchening’ is shameless plagiarism and not the work of our favorite author.”

Varric shook his head and gave her a disbelieving smile. “I’m going to need to send a letter to my agent when we get back to Skyhold, Song – ah, Inquisitor. Maybe two words long. ‘You’re’ and ‘fired.’ He told me there was no market for my books in Orlais, and yet –” He indicated Duke Cyril and Comtesse Solange.

“If you need assistance wringing stolen royals from your soon-to-be former agent, Monsieur Tethras, you need only ask,” Lord Laurent said.

Varric grinned. “I appreciate it. But my editor is Coterie. He cheated her, too.”

Marquis Renaud laughed and set his cards down. “He’ll live just long enough to regret his mistake! Come, have a drink, Inquisitor. What’s your pleasure?”

“Not Rowan’s Rose,” she said to general laughter. “Just fruit juice, if you please.”

Five pairs of clever eyes all sharpened, and Comtesse Solange smiled. “Fruit juice for me as well, Renaud dear.”

“Shall we all keep a clear head tonight?” Lord Laurent murmured.

“Perhaps we’d better,” Duke Cyril said as he sat on the nearest couch. “Or we’re liable to lose them.” He made a gesture to the minstrel in the corner, and the music increased in volume and tempo.

Varric raised his eyebrows and looked between them as Marquis Renaud walked off to the side table to pour the drinks, then gave a short bow and casually bade them all farewell. He sauntered out the door, whistling under his breath.

Comtesse Solange drew Ciri into light conversation, easing her into simple pleasantries and asking her polite, unintrusive questions about Skyhold and her interests. She sat beside Duke Cyril and responded in kind, aiming her questions at all four of them in turn. She was quick to tell Comtesse Solange where to find Triss as well, and the comtesse rewarded her with a pleased smile. Comtesse Solange’s motive in the easy conversation was clear, but still, something in her settled, and she couldn’t help feeling grateful toward her for it as Marquis Renaud returned with the juice.

Ciri sipped at it appreciatively. It was much better than the terrible wine. Chilled orange, sweet and just a bit tart. “I heard about the grand duke’s death threats,” she said at last. “Do you think he’ll attempt to follow through?”

“My late sister Calienne was his wife, and Duke Germain is his uncle,” Lord Laurent told her. “If he’ll threaten family, who knows how far he’ll go?”

“Forgive me for speaking plainly,” Ciri said. “I have no skill with your Game, and the stakes are too high tonight to be evasive.”

“You are, as my cousin said, refreshing,” Duke Cyril replied. “We won’t judge you for being direct, my lady. We’re as eager to be done with the night’s events as you are.”

“Indeed,” Marquis Renaud agreed. “Cards on the table.”

“Very well.” She took another sip of her juice and set the glass on the arm of the couch. “You aren’t the only ones to have been threatened by the grand duke tonight. He told me that they ‘take care of their own’ in response to those rumors about the Valmont bastardy. And his sister is apparently the one behind all the Inquisition’s troubles in Orlais, and the assassination attempt I faced in Val Royeaux.”

“We did see her dress,” Comtesse Solange said. “Odd that the notoriously secretive bard would finally reveal herself.”

“Leliana said she was making a declaration.”

“Taunting you is more likely the case,” Lord Laurent said. “You can’t act against her without ruining what reputation you have with the court. She has orchestrated her reveal masterfully.”

“I expect we’ll stumble across another unpleasant surprise or two before the night is through,” Duke Cyril said with a faint sigh. He seemed to hesitate for a moment, then shifted in his seat to more fully face Ciri. “My cousin didn’t rely on her former handmaiden, Briala, as her only bard. Both she and Gaspard have called on Papillon’s services many times over the years.”

Ciri wasn’t so comfortable around the Council of Heralds to slump into the couch, but it was a near thing. She took in the information and forced herself to meet Duke Cyril’s eyes calmly. “Do you think she’s involved?”

His lips twisted into a small, rueful smile. “If anything could bring them together in the midst of a civil war, it would be another competitor for the throne.”

“And you grew too powerful after they failed to eliminate you early on,” Comtesse Solange added. “They’ve had little choice but to deal with you politically since then.”

“Not that we would put you on the throne,” Marquis Renaud dismissed. “You yourself denied the rumors, and even if there were truth to them, an illegitimate Valmont couldn’t take precedence over Prince Reynaud’s daughter and Princess Melisande’s children.”

“ _Good_ ,” Ciri said vehemently.

"I'm glad we understand each other." Marquis Renaud took a sip of his juice and looked at her over the rim of his glass. "What is it the Inquisition hopes to achieve tonight?"

No one outside her small circle knew that they came to stop an assassination. Caution held her back from speaking too freely.

“We’d like to keep Corypheus from getting a foothold in your empire,” she said instead. “Stability in your realm.”

“Such modest desires,” Comtesse Solange said with a soft, slightly teasing laugh.

“The things I wish for beyond that don’t seem likely to happen,” Ciri said.

It wouldn’t stop her from trying, though.

“We can all agree that stability is critical,” Duke Cyril said. “Orlais needs clear and steady leadership in such trying times.”

“A compassionate ruler, who cares for all their subjects,” Comtesse Solange murmured.

Marquis Renaud raised his glass to her in a silent toast, a wry smile touching his lips.

Ciri took another sip of her juice to cover her reaction and nodded to Comtesse Solange. “Compassion is an important trait for any ruler to have.” She turned back to Duke Cyril and, after a moment’s thought, decided to take the risk of asking. “Would you say that Empress Celene cares for all her subjects?”

His mouth turned down at the corners, but still he nodded. “My cousin does believe more firmly in the rights of elves than most of her noble subjects. She opened the university to them, as you may be aware, and her most trusted advisor and spymaster for years was her elven handmaiden.”

“Forgive me, Your Grace, but that doesn’t explain Halamshiral.”

“Halamshiral was…” Duke Cyril trailed off and shook his head.

“You understand that it is not done to criticize our empress to the leader of a foreign power,” Lord Laurent said, his voice quiet beneath the music. “However much some of us might wish to.”

“I do understand.”

“Then you understand that we mean it when we say she went too far.”

“I love my cousin,” Duke Cyril added. “She has my fealty and my admiration for much of what she’s done for the empire. But Maker…”

“Celene loves to be loved,” Marquis Renaud said bluntly, and at Duke Cyril’s small sound of protest, scoffed and continued, “It’s the truth, Cyril. The civil war had just started when the riots broke out in Halamshiral. I don’t hold it against the elves. Things were always going to boil over with the way Mainserai’s men treated them.”

“And how was that?” Ciri asked.

“Worse than dogs,” he said. “Keep beating them, Inquisitor, and they’ll bite eventually.”

It was a very pragmatic way of looking at it, but she could understand that not every noble in Orlais would do the right thing simply because it was right. 

“But Gaspard took advantage,” he continued. “One of his allies paid for a new play lampooning Celene, and he bribed academics to write papers comparing elves to rabbits in truth and not just in insult. Celene was known for her partiality to elves at the time. Her reputation with the nobility took a hit, and her response was rash.”

“ _Rash_ is killing the ringleaders without a trial,” Ciri said evenly. “Having three thousand people massacred is beyond rash.”

Duke Cyril held his hands up in front of him. “I won’t argue that, Inquisitor. But she truly does care for the elves of Orlais, despite Halamshiral. My cousin is a visionary, not a warmonger like Gaspard.”

“And if something happens to make her fear she’s lost the nobles’ love again?” Ciri challenged him.

He looked away, and Ciri couldn’t feel any satisfaction in winning the argument.

The door to the salon opened, and they all abruptly straightened and looked over to see Sera come in with a bundle of papers under her arms. She bowed awkwardly to the assembled nobles and stood a respectful distance away.

“Got wot you wanted,” she said, holding out the papers.

Ciri rose from the couch and came over to collect them. She flipped through the pages, raising her eyebrows at one bloodstained letter from Gaspard to Celene alluding to a ‘weapon’ Briala controlled. The eluvians, perhaps?

“Got that off a man’s corpse in a room just off the library,” Sera muttered. “Someone did him in for the rest of his papers, but they missed that one.”

The rest was free of blood, but no less interesting: a report looking into when and where Prince Reynaud might have been when he possibly fathered Ciri, coded messages between Celene and Gaspard and Celene and Papillon, and a page listing servants and times they entered the servants’ wing but hadn’t returned, ending with a request to Briala for aid. She looked at Sera sharply at one small note penned from Gaspard to a Philippe telling him to “move in on the western wing” of the palace when the grand duke sent him three shots of brandy.

Sera tapped the edge of that one with a dirty look. “Found it in the trophy room. Bunch of chevaliers ‘round the door – I barely snuck through.”

Well, that settled it. Gaspard was clearly planning something that broke his “chevalier code of conduct.” And Celene had a hand in Papillon’s activities, too. Whether she intended for Ciri to die tonight or simply wanted her influence curtailed was a mystery, but one she’d figure out soon enough. Damn those rumors.

“Pardon me for the distraction,” Ciri said, turning back to Duke Cyril and his fellow Council members. “I’ve just received some important information I’ll need to act on. Sera, if you could please take this to Leliana, I’d appreciate it.”

“On it.” Sera took the papers back and left the parlor as quickly and quietly as she’d entered.

The four members of the Council of Heralds all gave Ciri speculative looks, and she added swiftly, “I’m sure Sister Nightingale would share what we’ve learned with you, should you choose to speak with her.”

“We may do that,” Marquis Renaud said slowly, his eyes intent on Ciri.

Before anyone could say anything else, bells rang out, loud and resonant. They got to their feet as well, Lord Laurent gesturing for the minstrel to stop playing.

Duke Cyril offered his arm to Comtesse Solange. “Time to put in an appearance, my friends.”

“A brief one,” Comtesse Solange demurred. “Just long enough to please the empress and annoy Gaspard.”

“Good luck, Lady Inquisitor,” Lord Laurent said with apparent sincerity. “I do believe you’ll need it.”

They left the parlor together and crossed the garden to enter the gallery. There, the nobles took their leave of Ciri, mingling with the other courtiers. She began to wander back toward the ballroom alone. It was time to collect a few people and make her way to the servants’ wing.

Her hand had just touched the handle to the ballroom door when a woman’s voice called out from behind her, low and husky and subtly mocking.

“Well, well. What have we here?”

Ciri turned to see a ghostly pale human woman with golden eyes and dark hair slowly ascending the stairs, her gown a deep burgundy edged with black lace. She wore no mask. She struck Ciri very strongly, from her carriage to her tone to the arch, amused expression on her face, like one of the sorceresses of the Lodge, and she had to keep from reflexively frowning.

“The leader of the Inquisition,” the woman continued. “The Hand of the Holy Maker Himself. _Blessed_ with the blood of Elvhenan. What could bring such an exalted personage as yourself to the Imperial Court, I wonder?”

Ciri met her strange eyes. “Morrigan, I presume.”

“Leliana mentioned me?” Full lips rose in a smirk. “But of course. You, Inquisitor, have been a very busy woman. Sending your agent about to rifle through the empress’ correspondence in the library, making friends with both the servants and the movers and shakers of the court – one might think you were investigating something.”

Ciri flicked a glance around and saw that the nearest courtier was over twenty feet away. Still, she kept her voice down. “And if I am?”

“Then perhaps we seek the same answers.”

“Perhaps,” Ciri said coolly. She wasn’t inclined to reveal anything to the empress’ arcane advisor, not with Leliana’s warning fresh in her mind.

Morrigan seemed amused by her reticence. “Oh, she warned you of me, didn’t she? How quickly she forgets that we were allies in those dark days. No matter, Inquisitor. Keep your counsel. I shall speak first.

“Recently I found, and dispatched, an uninvited guest here in these halls. An agent of Tevinter. So I offer you this: a key. Found on the agent’s body. Where it leads, I know not, yet if Celene is in danger, I cannot leave her side long enough to search.”

Ciri studied the key and once again had to hide her reaction. “I know what door this goes to,” she told her, holding in her unease at seeing a double of the key to the secondary kitchen in her hand. “Thank you.”

Momentary surprise crossed Morrigan’s face, there and gone in the blink of an eye. “Of course,” she said with a cool nod of her head. “I shall return to Celene anon. It’s unwise to leave her side for long.”

“You think an assassin will strike tonight as well,” Ciri said.

“‘Twould be a great fool who strikes at her in public, in front of all her court and the imperial guard,” Morrigan replied. “Yet also bold. A statement that Corypheus can reach the heart of Orlais even with all precautions taken.”

Ciri wasn’t so forgetful as to grimace where courtiers could see her, but she did press her lips together and incline her head at Morrigan in strained agreement.

“My,” Morrigan breathed, curiosity lighting her eyes. “Is something else afoot tonight?”

“Is there ever just one Game being played at an Orlesian ball?” Ciri deflected.

Morrigan laughed. “Fair! I don’t envy you, Inquisitor. Proceed with caution. Enemies abound, and not all of them are so clearly aligned with Tevinter.”

She led the way into the ballroom and promptly parted from Ciri, who stood alone for a moment to get the lay of the land. Down on the dance floor, couples drew together and apart gracefully. In the center, light shining off his red hair and the gold embroidery threads of both their outfits, Olgierd and Josephine twirled, their eyes locked together. Along the wall, Cassandra stood rigidly, enduring a conversation she seemed desperate to escape. Farther up the way, Vivienne and Triss led a lively conversation with a half-dozen men and women. On the other side of the ballroom, Ciri spotted Leliana watching the crowd with a carefully pleasant expression, and Cullen, bracketed by Raúl and Maxwell, looking ruffled. At the far end, she saw Owain speaking to Evelyn and another Orlesian noble. Comte Lothair Doucy, judging by his mask.

“Cole,” she said quietly.

“I’m here.”

“I need Iron Bull, Cassandra, Solas, and Sera to meet me at the door to the kitchen just off the gallery. We have a lead.”

“Oh. Be careful. There are bodies. The ones who killed them are still there.”

Ciri frowned just a little at that. “Perhaps one of them will have an answer for us. Tell Leliana where we went, please.”

“But you haven’t gone anywhere yet.”

“When we go, then.”

“Alright.”

Ciri slipped back out of the ballroom and headed for the gallery again as casually as she could. So far the night had been full of conflicting agendas, hidden meanings, and plots within plots. Even the likeable nobles spoke sideways.

But this she could handle.

 _Time to get to work_ , she thought again. And this time, she wouldn’t be expected to make nice with the people who wanted her dead.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is now a missing scenes/side stories section as a part 2 -- "Herald" is now a series! Olgierd's introduction to Yvette is the first scene posted.


	61. Ambassadors and Butterflies

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ciri investigates the servants' wing and meets the elusive ambassador. For a bard, Florianne is surprisingly candid, but is it just another step in the Game? And Ciri gets some answers about Gaspard and Celene's machinations from Briala, and offers her advice she's reluctant to hear.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> beta-read by brightspot149. Thank you!

Ciri felt no small measure of relief to see that the Villon family had moved on from admiring the statuary in the gallery near the kitchen door. She glanced over her shoulder to see if anyone was watching, then used the key Morrigan had handed her to let herself in only to stop short. Her breath caught in anger and dismay.

Two corpses lay sprawled across the stone floor, blood pooled beneath them. Both were clad in the same neat livery of the palace servants, and both had pointed ears.

Cole had warned of bodies. Somehow, the reality of his words was worse than she’d expected.

The door opened behind her, and Sera swore.

“What fully qualified arsehole stops to kill servants?” She brushed past Ciri to stare down at the bodies with a dark glower. “That’s Colette. Her sister’s pregnant. An’ Emile snuck me an extra serving this morning. _Why_?”

A large shadow fell over them, and the Iron Bull said with a note of sympathy in his voice, “Pretty common infiltration tactic. Take out the staff when you come across them so they can’t raise the alarm.”

“It’s friggin’ _garbage_.”

“Yeah, it is. Sorry, Sera.”

Solas and Cassandra slipped in, and Cassandra exclaimed softly at the sight of the corpses. 

Solas frowned, a regretful look coming into his eyes for a moment before he turned to Sera. “Where have our armor and weapons been hidden?”

Sera ripped her gaze from Emile’s corpse and crossed to the wall on the right where a large chest sat half-hidden beneath a thick pile of sausages. She shoved them carelessly to the floor and unlatched the chest to reveal an assortment of weapons and armor.

Ciri turned her back to Cassandra and gave her an expectant look over her shoulder. After a moment, she felt the laces loosening, and she slipped her gown and chemise over her head and toed her slippers off. Her companions followed suit quickly, and they traded their silks and satins for leather and steel. They folded up their gowns and doublets with care and laid them in the chest, and Sera piled the sausages back on the lid.

“Whoever did this should still be around here,” Sera said with a last look at Emile and Colette. “Let’s make them pay, yeah?”

“Gladly,” Ciri agreed.

They moved from the pantry to the kitchen and stumbled across another body, his limbs askew and eyes blank in death. Sera made a sound deep in her throat, angry and wounded.

“Roshan. His dad was Dalish. He picked flowers for Sophie.”

“You got to know them well in only a few weeks,” Solas said softly.

Sera scoffed. “Wasn’t that the point?”

“We’ll get justice for them, Sera,” Ciri promised.

Sera looked at her with dark eyes. “Justice would be burnin’ this friggin’ palace down around their stupid fancy hats.”

“Easy, Sera,” the Iron Bull said. “Don’t let your anger use you. Take it and point it in the right direction. Make it your weapon. Breathe.”

She glared at him but took a deep breath nonetheless as they passed into another large larder.

“Their deaths are a tragedy,” Solas said, “but I’m surprised the elven servants matter to you so much.”

“They’re still little people,” Sera shot back. “Littler than most. All the ones workin’ here used to live in the alienage before it got burned down. And –” She clenched her fists and bit her lip. “Three thousand deaths are a lot, no matter who. I thought it was just a spat, yeah? Between Briala and Celene. So maybe I was wrong. It shouldn’t be about ears, but if that’s wot it takes to get the nobles to listen down here, then fine. It can be about ears. They’ve killed enough people over them.”

Ciri hadn’t thought anything would change Sera’s stance on elves. She only wished it hadn’t been so painful for her friend.

The larder opened out into a beautifully arranged garden, and Cassandra asked quietly, “Would Gaspard make for a better ruler?”

Sera snorted. Solas and the Iron Bull both looked at Cassandra like they couldn’t quite believe she’d asked that.

“I thought you liked your country,” the Iron Bull said.

Ciri sighed and once again began to explain all she’d learned since arriving. The Iron Bull took the news in with a slow nod, but Cassandra and Sera swore and peppered her with questions as they pressed deeper into the garden.

The pathway led to a gaudily decorated fountain with four golden lions spitting water, and the Iron Bull held up a large hand to stop their approach at the sight of a body crumpled at its base.

“That’s no elf,” he said in a low voice. “Look. See the mask and doublet? Identical to the Council of Heralds emissary who was running around the gallery earlier.”

Ciri drew closer, tilting her head in curiosity at the dagger planted deeply in the man’s back. The blade had an odd, wavy shape to it, and the hilt bore a crest she thought she recognized from all of Vivienne and Josephine’s lessons. After a second, it came to her.

“This is the de Chalons crest,” she said.

“Prick,” Sera pronounced.

“As inclined to distrust Gaspard as I am, doesn’t this seem too perfect?” Ciri tugged the dagger free with a grunt of effort and handed it to the Iron Bull. “Keep that safe for me, please. We may need it as evidence later.”

“Removing it from the scene of the crime before whoever planted it comes back and cleans it up?” he asked.

Ciri managed to give him a faint smile. He understood. She appreciated that he’d dropped most of his masks for the night. Strangely enough, she found the foreign spy more trustworthy when she knew he wasn’t acting a part to set her at ease.

A frantic scream shattered the air. Ciri shot to her feet as an elf in servant’s livery pelted around the corner, a painted bard clad all in white hard on her heels. Before any of them could react, the bard slashed open the servant’s back with a dagger, sending blood flying. The servant collapsed with a cry of pain, and Sera shouted in anger.

Three Venatori warriors pounded up behind them, swords in hand, as the bard tossed down a little ball of something dark that burst into a mass of smoke. When it cleared, the bard was nowhere to be seen.

“No collars,” Ciri called out.

“Right,” the Iron Bull grunted. He swung out, striking the leftmost warrior with the keen edge of his greataxe. “No holding back.”

Lightning lanced down as Cassandra charged into the fray. Ciri nimbly dodged a return blow and struck back at her opponent’s chest as Sera’s arrows flew from behind. Steel alloy clashed against steel links, and armor gave way. The warrior fell with a pained gurgle, his comrades not far behind him.

Ciri turned from the dead to see Sera already scrambling to kneel beside the dying servant.

“Shite,” Sera swore, gripping the servant’s hand. “Just…just hold on, alright? Solas! Fix her!”

Solas knelt beside her and laid his palm beside the deep gash on her quivering back. He shook his head and looked back up at Sera apologetically. “I’m sorry, Sera. It’s too late.”

“Then wot soddin’ good are you?”

Solas flinched minutely as Sera squeezed the servant’s hand, murmuring to her soothingly. The hand in hers twitched, then went slack. A sharp, angry noise escaped Sera, and she dropped back on her heels.

“I’m sorry,” Ciri said softly.

“So ‘m I.” Sera roughly scrubbed the back of her hand across her eyes and stood. “Her name was Jeanette. She was gettin’ married in Kingsway to someone from the Val Chevin alienage. Shite. Friggin’ arseholes, all of them.”

Ciri felt like her heart was cracking to see her cheerful, irreverent friend so distraught and angry. To make matters worse, they had to just leave the bodies lying there. They needed stealth and speed, and a fire would draw unwanted attention.

Solas reached out and smoothed back Jeanette’s hair, then shut her eyes with gentle fingers. He stood and nodded to Sera and Ciri. “We shouldn’t linger.”

“Right.” Ciri let out a slow, unhappy breath. “That bard. Do you know why they had their face painted instead of masked, Iron Bull?”

“When a bard gets up to something they can’t have connected back to their patron, they’ll ditch the mask and paint their face instead,” the Iron Bull said as they started walking again.

“Something like working with the Venatori, perhaps?”

“Sounds about right.”

“We know Gaspard has something in mind for us through his sister, but I’m not going to assume this is their work just yet. There are too many powerful nobles at the masquerade tonight, and they all have their own agenda.”

Sera shot into the shadows, and a black-clad Venatori mage toppled over silently.

“Open mind, got it,” the Iron Bull said. “Briala will probably have some ideas when we catch up to her.”

“This way,” Sera said tersely. She pointed to a small archway along a wall overgrown with ivy and surrounded by boxes and barrels. “Servants’ entrance for the Grand Apartments.”

The room was dim within, and a thin layer of dust coated the sheets draped over the furniture. A covered lantern flickered with a subdued yellow light, casting large shadows across the walls. Sera ignored the mess and led them on quiet feet out of the entryway and past open doors to a large hall. Venatori prowled the space, all of them fully clothed and uncollared, and none of them in mage robes.

Solas called down lightning in a blinding flash, and Sera’s arrows flew with deadly aim. Seconds later, there was nothing left to do but poke through the scattered papers the Venatori had been searching.

“Nothing,” Cassandra said with disgust.

Ciri turned from the mess. “Then we keep going.”

On they went, through a beautifully decorated entryway to a dimly lit study where two archers stood at ease with their backs to them. Ciri gestured to Sera and Solas, and magic and arrows flew once more.

“Anything?” Ciri asked.

“Books,” the Iron Bull said with a jerk of his chin toward the towering shelves. “We’d be here for the rest of the night trying to figure out which one of them had anything useful.”

“Come on.” Sera started moving toward the stairs, her eyes hard and determined.

The stairs led to a long, open hallway overlooking the floor below. Pillars decorated with golden lions marked their path as Sera strode ahead, prowling down the hall and around a corner. Ciri hastened to keep up.

The shuffling of papers and low voices caught her attention, and Sera stiffened outside a room. Solas peered around the corner, then cast a barrier over the five of them as Sera loosed an arrow. Voices within the room shouted in alarm, and fire flew in their direction, licking around the edge of the doorway.

The Iron Bull charged past Solas and Sera, and Ciri and Cassandra followed in his wake. He crashed into the first Venatori warrior with a snarl, his axe swinging down brutally. Ciri brought her sword up to parry another’s blow and returned the strike. Flashes of fire and lightning danced around them as Solas and Sera concentrated on the mage.

The warrior Ciri faced staggered at another blow, his knees buckling. Cassandra stove in his head from behind with the boss of her shield, and he dropped like a stone. The Iron Bull's opponent fell, a deep, bloody hole in his chest from where the edge of the axe had dug in. One last volley of arrows and elements and the Venatori mage expired as well.

Ciri took a moment to catch her breath and looked around the room. It was a beautiful bedchamber, quite well-appointed and lavishly furnished, though the faint layer of dust on the bed covers told her it hadn’t been used in months, at least.

“They wanted something in here,” she observed. “Whose room is this?”

“Sophie said it’s usually the empress’, only she got moved to a different wing with the renovations.” Sera stalked to a door along the wall and fished a small gold coin from her belt purse. “Bet you anythin’ those Venatori wanted in here.”

There was a faint crackle of static, and the door swung open to reveal a vault filled with chests and shelves overflowing with baubles and trinkets.

“Go through those,” Ciri said as she went to the shelves. “See if she has any papers that might be of interest to us.”

She carefully lifted gauzy scarves and flipped through thin, gilt-edged volumes of poetry and Orlesian plays, setting them back down exactly where she found them. On the bottom shelf, a hardwood locket with intricate elven engravings strung on a satin cord caught her eye, and she bent over to get a closer look.

“No papers, Boss,” the Iron Bull reported.

“No,” Ciri murmured, “but this might be something.”

She picked up the locket and opened the catch with her thumb. Held inside by a little bar was a lock of hair, a rich brown curl. She hesitated, then shut it and stuck it in her belt purse.

The Iron Bull raised his eyebrows at her. “Got something in mind?”

“Possibly.” She looked at Sera. “Where to next?”

“This way.”

They left the bedchamber behind and headed through rooms filled with furniture hidden beneath dusty white sheets. The moonlight filtering in through the tall windows gave everything a faintly blue, abandoned look. Large crates cluttered the floor, likely filled with valuables waiting to be moved or unpacked when the renovations were finished.

Sera threw out an arm at the sound of low muttering ahead, and Solas silently cast a barrier over them. Ciri peered around the corner to see a handful of Venatori warriors searching the crates alongside the white-clad bard from the garden. A hiss of anger escaped from between Sera’s clenched teeth, and she nocked an arrow to her bowstring.

Solas’ green spell tore through the air to smash into a pair of warriors as Sera let her arrow fly. The bard dropped another of their balls to disappear in a cloud of smoke. Ciri dashed forward to strike at the nearest warrior with _Gynvael_ , slashing at his side and slipping away to avoid a thrust.

Cassandra and the Iron Bull tore past her, intent on their own opponents. Ciri let the spells and clash of steel fall to a hum around her as she pirouetted and struck, slashed and parried. Someone shouted a warning, and she whirled around to block a dagger streaking down toward her, clenched in the bard’s fist.

The bard disappeared again, and Ciri swore and struck down the warrior. All around the room, the fighting came to a halt as bodies dropped. The bard reappeared halfway down the room and dashed for the exit only to be met by a thrown knife impacting their face with a wet _thunk_.

An elf in deep marine blue and soft white, her hair a beautifully springy coil of rich brown curls pulled back in a braided bun, stepped around the corner. Her face was a light brown beneath her silver half-mask, with freckles peeking out from beneath the edges, and her dark eyes held a sharp intelligence as she coolly looked from face to face.

“Fancy meeting you here, Inquisitor Morhen.”

“Ambassador Briala,” Ciri said politely, giving her a small bow. “Sophie and Lem said you might need help.”

The coolness in Briala’s eyes warmed a touch at that, and she walked closer to stand by the balcony doors alongside the wall. “I was doing fine, but the others… It’s good that Sophie thought to send people armed for battle. I’m sure you saw the bodies on the way in.”

“Emile an’ Colette,” Sera said quietly, angrily. “Roshan. That friggin’ bard killed Jeanette right in front of us.”

Briala’s lips thinned. “Ask any one of the nobles still at the masquerade, and they won’t consider it murder. Just four rabbits dead. No great loss, until a hearth needs tending tomorrow morning or there’s no one to deliver food to the table at breakfast.”

“We know better,” Ciri said. “We came to help you, not Gaspard or Celene.”

Behind Ciri, she could hear Cassandra shift from foot to foot, but her friend stayed silent.

Briala looked at the corpses scattered around the room, then back at Ciri. “And presumably to foil whatever plans are afoot. Someone intends to keep the peace talks from succeeding tonight. Venatori agents in the Winter Palace tells me the plans run deeper than mere sabotage.”

“And they’re working with an Orlesian bard,” Ciri added. “Have you seen anything here tonight?”

“There was the dead emissary with Gaspard’s dagger in his back,” Briala said. “I wouldn’t put it past him, but it seemed too obvious.”

“That’s what we thought, as well.”

“He has been up to other tricks, however,” Briala told her. “He’s smuggled in his chevaliers, attempted to threaten the Council of Heralds. Bringing Tevinter assassins into the palace doesn’t seem like a stretch in comparison.”

“I knew about the threats,” Ciri said. “But the chevaliers? Do you know where he has them hiding?”

Briala tilted her head slightly, her dark eyes sharpening again. “They’re somewhere in the royal wing, according to my sources. Waiting for Gaspard’s signal, no doubt.”

“I saw some of them,” Sera interjected. “Three big armored tits hangin’ ‘round the trophy room. Signal’s Gaspard sendin’ them all a round of brandy.”

“They’re to move on the west wing of the palace,” Ciri added. “What precisely he has planned, we don’t know just yet.”

“Removing Celene from power one way or another, no doubt,” Briala said. “I’ve been trying to determine the best person to approach to help me deal with the situation. Few nobles would take the word of an elf over that of the grand duke.”

“Duke Cyril de Montfort would listen,” Ciri said at once, “as would Marquis Renaud Mantillon.”

Briala’s spine went stiff, but her voice stayed even. “Mantillon? The late Dowager’s wastrel son? I’m surprised you’d suggest such a man. And rumor has it Cyril de Montfort mistook a Viddathari spy for one of Chateau Haine’s servants as a younger man. What aid would he possibly wish to give me?”

“That’s not the impression I was left with when I met them earlier,” Ciri said. “They both spoke against the slaughter of the alienage, as did Lord Laurent de Ghislain. I’m sure you already know that Duke Cyril has sponsored an elf to study at the university –”

“A token,” Briala said flatly. “Our people demand more than scraps and gestures that can be taken away at a whim. But if you say that they disagreed with Celene enough to voice it to you…I will bring the matter to their attention.” She didn’t quite sigh as her attention turned back to the body of the bard. “Gaspard is desperate. He must be planning to strike tonight.”

“I agree, though there’s more to his plans than usurping Celene.” Briala looked up at that, and Ciri elaborated. “He threatened my life when I arrived, and his sister is the bard behind both the assassination attempt I faced in Val Royeaux and the political sabotage we’ve had to deal with for nearly a year. Sister Leliana thinks they don’t intend to let me survive the night.”

“Not unless you back him as emperor,” Briala said, her voice shrewd.

“That’s our assumption.”

“Then you will need to strike first, and in such a way that you remain above reproach.” Her whole body was still, the deep blue of her dress turned nearly black in the moonlight. A moment passed, and then she said decisively, “I’ll be your ally in this, as you were to me here. If you need me, you’ll be able to find me in the ballroom on the balcony.”

“I’ll look for you there,” Ciri said.

“I’d bet coin you’ll be part of the peace talks tonight,” Briala said. “Provided they haven’t been called off, of course. If you could add your voice to mine…”

“I will. You have my word.”

Briala blinked at her in surprise, and the faintest of smiles crossed her face. “I might almost believe you.”

Without a single look back, Briala disappeared out the balcony and jumped from the broken ledge to the garden below.

“This will be a difficult path to walk,” Cassandra said, speaking up at last. “Few in the imperial court will thank you for siding with Briala.”

Ciri turned to face her companions and caught Cassandra’s eyes. “Do you disagree?”

Cassandra let out a faint snort of laughter and shook her head. Her face was resigned and oddly fond. “Lady Ciri, I supported you when you allied with Grand Enchanter Fiona, and when you pardoned the Grey Wardens. I let Anders go on your word. I promised to stand against the Chantry itself if they ever turned on you. If you believe this is the right decision, then I am with you. Always.”

Ciri’s throat went tight with the rush of affection that went through her at her friend’s words. She nodded to her firmly. “Thank you.”

“Better head back before the bells start ringing again,” the Iron Bull said.

Sera slapped her hands together. “When do we get to the part where we ruin their night? Friggin’ Gaspard, an’ that _bitch_ Celene – should drown ‘em both in their stupid caprice fountain.”

Ciri headed out to the balcony and leaped down off the broken ledge, following in Briala’s footsteps. Soft thuds behind her told her that she’d been followed.

“Drowning is probably off the table,” she told Sera. “But with Briala bringing Duke Cyril and Marquis Renaud into our confidence, we may have Gaspard out of play before he can even make his move.”

“And Celene?” Sera asked aggressively.

“I’m working on it.”

The trouble was that they'd come to prevent Celene's assassination. No part of Ciri wanted to save the woman who ordered the deaths of thousands of her subjects, but when the alternative was Gaspard or Florianne, what else could she do?

“Don’t forget Florianne,” Solas reminded her. “Even if she’s not the threat Celene faces, she’s certainly a threat to you.”

“Believe me,” Ciri said, “I haven’t forgotten her.”

They wound their way through arched trellises leading back to the fountain with the dead Council emissary and poor Jeanette and found a pair of armed elves cleaning up the scene. They nodded to Ciri and continued their work.

“Thank you, Inquisitor,” one of them said politely. “You had better hurry. We’ll take care of things here.”

They picked up the pace and hurried to the kitchen again, throwing open the chest and shedding their armor. The Iron Bull produced a large linen handkerchief from a pocket and spat in it.

“Come here,” he said to Ciri with a crook of his mangled finger.

She stepped closer, and he briskly swiped the handkerchief over her hands and neck, then rubbed it over one of her earrings. He pulled it away and showed her the blood. “There. The less evidence, the better.”

She smiled up at him and patted him on the elbow. “Thank you.”

“No problem.”

They pulled on their clothes as the bell rang out above their heads. Cassandra’s deft fingers made quick work of the laces up Ciri’s spine again, and Sera tossed their armor into the chest and grabbed up the swords. Ciri snagged the elven locket from her armor’s belt purse and looped the satin cords just below her knee, tying it securely in place.

“Go,” Sera said. “I’ll clean up your blades. You go deal with the rich tits.”

Ciri thanked her hurriedly and peeked around the door. No one was in the vicinity, so she slipped out from behind it and walked with practiced calm back into the gallery. Several seconds later, she heard the door open again, and footsteps followed behind her.

The bell rang out a second time as she neared the door to the ballroom, and she breathed a faint sigh of relief. Her relief was short-lived, however, as the first thing she saw upon entering was the strangely predatory half-mask of the de Chalons family, and rising behind it, the hand-painted silk collar of a butterfly’s wing.

“Lady Inquisitor,” Florianne said, holding out her hand in a languid gesture. “I have been hoping for a moment of your time.”

 _Damn_. Courtiers were milling about; at least a dozen pairs of eyes were on them. She couldn't rebuff her – and she needed to know what they had planned.

“Is there something I can do for you, Your Grace?” she asked.

“Perhaps,” Florianne said with a coy shrug. “We are overdue a conversation. But not here. Come, dance with me. Our words will not be overheard on the dance floor.”

Ciri glanced beyond Florianne’s shoulder to the ballroom floor, where a half-dozen couples whirled together. Olgierd and Josephine had quit the dance floor, though Triss was there, dancing with Comtesse Solange, and Cullen led Evelyn through the steps of the dance hesitantly, both of them looking somewhat cautious. As she looked down, Triss looked up, and a wary look crossed her face. Ciri shook her head incrementally, and Florianne smirked as Triss subsided and turned back to her partner.

“Very well,” Ciri agreed, doing her best to hide her reluctance.

“Marvelous,” Florianne purred, and she took Ciri’s arm to lead her down the steps.

The music slowed and stopped, and after a few beats of silence, the notes for a bourrée struck up. Ciri took her place at Florianne’s side, their hands joined between them as they skipped forward a step.

“I had a most interesting encounter in Val Royeaux several months ago,” she said lightly. “Two, in fact.”

Florianne laughed under her breath. “It was hardly personal, Inquisitor. When my cousin and brother agree on a course of action for the first time in years, who am I to dissent? That is the Game, and I am, as always, their hand in the shadows.”

“Somehow I can’t help but take it personally.” Ciri twirled in place and came back to Florianne with a flourish of her hands. “Particularly since it was done on rumors and lies, ones I’ve done nothing but attempt to refute since I learned of them.”

“The appearance matters more than the truth, I’m afraid to say, and neither my brother nor my cousin will ever suffer another rival to the throne.” A smirk curved Florianne’s lips. “Especially one who’d have to be my dear cousin’s younger sister, and an elf-blooded bastard at that. She couldn’t stand the thought of someone younger and more adored threatening her reign and insisted we take measures.”

Ciri tried to keep her face impassive, but she was fairly sure she failed, judging by Florianne’s deepening smirk. “Why are you telling me this?”

“ _I_ have no quarrel with you, Lady Cirilla,” Florianne assured her as they moved together. “Indeed, I admire you. Allow me to make my dilemma plain. If you stand with Celene at the peace talks, Gaspard will want you dead. And if you stand with Gaspard –”

“Celene will want me dead,” Ciri finished.

Florianne smiled at her. “And they have both called upon me to do the deed! A distressing position to put me in, is it not? However, there is a way to de-fang my brother, so you’ll have no need to choose which of my relatives to support.”

Ciri had better control over her expression this time, and she just raised her eyebrows slightly at that. “I’m listening.”

She didn’t trust it, not a bit, but she’d see where this led.

“My brother’s attack will come soon,” Florianne said quietly. “You can head off his mercenaries in the gardens of the royal wing. The captain of the company is there and knows many of Gaspard’s secrets. Convince him to spill them at the talks, and my brother will be rendered toothless.”

“Hm.” Ciri led Florianne through the last few steps, then curtseyed. “Thank you for the dance, Your Grace. It was…enlightening.”

“It was my pleasure, Inquisitor,” Florianne said with another practiced smile. “Please, enjoy yourself. And don’t take too long.”

Ciri tried not to frown as she made her way up the stairs again. Florianne’s information neatly matched Briala’s, and yet it seemed strange to her that Gaspard was the one Florianne would turn on. Her own brother, not her cousin. Stranger still that she was so free with information on Celene’s involvement in ‘Papillon’s’ machinations, as well. Was she attempting to set Ciri against them both?

If only she knew she didn’t need to try that hard. Ciri already loathed both contenders for the throne, and hardly needed any help in that arena.

Olgierd and Josephine awaited her at the top of the stairs, Josephine with a smile and Olgierd with a faint frown. They were a matched, elegant set in the Inquisition’s colors, him in his slightly modified robes and trousers and her in her gown.

“That looked interesting from where we were standing,” Josephine said. “Did she have anything to say for herself?”

Ciri let out a huff of laughter. “That the assassination attempt ‘wasn’t personal.’ At least not for her. From what she said, it was very personal for Celene and Gaspard.”

She led them away from the staircase, filling them in on the rest of the conversation softly. Josephine’s smile disappeared, and Olgierd’s frown deepened.

“Seems more than suspicious,” he said. “She’s trying to lead you by the nose, and you’re letting her.”

Her protest died at the concern in his eyes. “I know,” she admitted. “But her lead matches Briala’s, and her words about Celene echo what Duke Cyril said. I have limited options tonight if I’m to investigate these threats.”

“Do you believe what she told you?”

“I think she was careful with her words,” she said after a moment of thought, “and she clearly has some deeper agenda. But I don’t think she was outright lying.”

He shook his head. “It won’t end well.”

“It rarely ever does,” she said. “But we don’t have much of a choice. We could always confront Gaspard with no evidence and get ourselves thrown from the masquerade…”

Olgierd’s lips twitched, and Josephine lifted a hand to her mouth to cover a smile.

“If it must be done, I’ll not try to stop you. But I’m coming with you this time.”

“I’d appreciate that.” Ciri lowered her voice and spoke to the empty air just at her shoulder. “Cole?”

“You were dancing different dances,” he said, his voice almost startling for its lack of body. “A duel, not a dance. She riposted, you parried. Dodges and pirouettes. I didn’t see who won.”

“Neither did I,” Ciri told him. “Cole, we need the chest with the armor moved to just inside the royal wing. Can you help Sera do that? And help make sure people forget it if they see you two moving it?”

“Yes.”

Ciri waited, but she didn’t feel his presence leave. “Was there something else?”

“She’s dangerous. The butterfly. Lies on her tongue, poison on her wings.”

“Don’t worry; I don’t trust her as far as I can throw her.” She reached out surreptitiously and felt a ghostly hand brush hers. “Was she telling the truth about Celene and Gaspard?”

“…Yes.”

“Thank you.” She felt him leave this time, and she looked to Josephine. “Do you think it’s worth speaking to Celene, knowing what we know?”

“Would her answers satisfy you?” Josephine asked her. “Could any answer?”

“No,” Ciri said softly.

No, she wouldn’t be satisfied to hear what made an empress so ambitious, so insecure, that even the rumor of a bastard sister would drive her to arrange an assassination attempt. She wouldn’t be satisfied to understand what could make a person so ruthless, so desperate to maintain her courtiers’ approval, that she’d order the deaths of thousands of her most vulnerable subjects.

It felt like the height of irony that she was here to save a woman who’d tried to take her life. And privately, she wasn’t sure she was a good enough person to rise above it and do what needed to be done.

She kept her doubts locked behind her teeth and squared her shoulders. “I’m going to go talk to Briala. I’ll meet you at the entrance to the royal wing.”

“I wouldn’t miss it,” Olgierd said, giving her a quick wink and dropping a kiss on Josephine’s knuckles.

Josephine squeezed his hand and nodded to Ciri. “I’ll tell Commander Cullen and Sers Owain and Raúl to get our men into position.”

Ciri gave her a brief, appreciative smile and left them behind, weaving her way through the throngs of courtiers to the balconies overlooking the gardens. There were two directly opposite each other at the end of the ballroom. Celene stood with her back to the festivities in between the two, gazing out a floor-length window beside a pair of closed doors. Ciri looked to the left and saw moonlight flash off a sharp couter as a gloved hand brought a glass to a mouth.

 _Gaspard_.

She went right instead. Briala was exactly where she’d said she’d be, tucked into a corner of the balcony and watching the milling courtiers below. Her expression was somewhat cooler than before when she saw who’d arrived.

“I hadn’t heard of your court introduction when we met earlier,” Briala said. “Whoever wrote it did their best to ensure you wouldn’t make many connections at court. Introducing the only elf in your company as your servant, though…your idea?”

“His, though he didn’t tell me until after it was done,” she told her. “He thought he’d have better luck reading the crowd if they overlooked him.”

“Smart man.” Her expression lightened just a hair. “What brings you to speak with me so soon?”

“I have a few questions – and I wanted to return something to you.”

“Ask away.” Briala leaned against the railing and crossed her arms.

“I’ve heard that Gaspard was the ‘rightful heir.’ So how did Celene come to sit on the throne?”

Briala stilled, and her large, dark eyes glinted in the chill light of the moon. Ciri waited patiently, and after a tense moment, the ambassador let her arms drop.

“I suppose I don’t need to keep her secrets,” she murmured. “Mind you, she never told me this. I had to discover it for myself. You are aware that Emperor Florian was assassinated, yes?”

Ciri made a soft sound of agreement.

“It was a scheme that Celene cooked up with Dowager Marquise Mantillon when she was only sixteen. To throw off suspicion, she staged a false assassination attempt on herself as well, one that saw every servant in her household dead but me. The attack garnered her sympathy and made her seem like a more credible contender for the throne than Gaspard, who’d been ignored by any assassins.”

“That’s how your parents died,” Ciri said quietly.

Briala looked away, old anger and pain drawing lines around her mouth. “It is.”

“I’m sorry. I know what it’s like to lose a parent.”

“It’s a singular pain, isn’t it?” Briala waved a dismissive hand. “No matter. Celene won the Council of Heralds to her cause quite easily and assumed the throne before the month was out. Gaspard has resented her ever since, though they’ve been known to work together when they feel an outside force threatens them as a dynasty.”

“Like me.”

“Mm.”

Ciri joined her at the railing and leaned against it. The cold stone leached through her thin silk gown, making her shiver slightly. “I have to admit I’m a bit confused. If Gaspard’s the presumptive heir, and Celene’s being targeted by assassins tonight, then why is Gaspard going around threatening the Council of Heralds into siding with him? Wouldn’t he assume the throne as a matter of course if Celene died?”

She found herself pinned by Briala’s sharp stare again, and she met it as best she could. At last, Briala shook her head and let out a soft scoff.

"'If.'" Briala looked toward the ballroom, her face unreadable. "Not necessarily, Inquisitor. The Council of Heralds would not be eager to seat a regicide. If they'd known of Celene's machinations, she'd never have ascended to the throne, and likewise, Gaspard wouldn't rise on Celene's death if he was found to be even partly responsible. They'd pass over him for Florianne, or even for one of their cousins if they had to. The threats are to make them fall in line, so that even if anything improper is found, they’ll still rule in his favor.”

“I see.”

She thought she was beginning to understand the shape of the plots around her now. Gaspard had certainly been thrown to the wolves by his sister, hadn’t he? But Ciri couldn’t muster up much in the way of sympathy given his actions.

“You said you had something for me,” Briala reminded her.

“I do.” Ciri hitched up the hem of her gown and untied the satin cord from around her leg. She held out the locket to Briala, who stared at it, her eyes wide with shock.

“Where did you find that?”

“In the vault in Celene’s old bedchamber,” Ciri said. “On the bottom shelf. Behind some scarves.”

Briala reached out with a trembling hand and took the locket carefully, then gripped it tightly, her knuckles going white around it. “Why are you giving it to me?”

“May I tell you a story?” Ciri asked instead.

Briala glared at her, but she nodded, just a single, sharp jerk of her head.

“My friend hurt a lot of people, his wife among them,” she said. Briala stiffened. “A demon cursed him, made him cruel – I don’t mean to excuse what he did. He still betrayed her trust. Hurt her loved ones. Did things that I’m not sure I’d ever forgive if I were in her shoes.”

“What's the purpose of this story?”

Ciri ignored the question. “He changed again once the curse was broken. He’s one of my dearest friends; I trust him completely. But –”

“But?” Briala asked swiftly.

“But if his wife still lived, and she asked for my advice, I’d never tell her to take him back,” Ciri admitted. “I’m glad, truly, that he’s become a good man who’s found love again, but…”

“You see me in this wife,” Briala said, her voice tense. “Do you think I have so little self-respect that I’d return to Celene’s side?”

“I think if you thought it was the only thing that would give you the tools you needed to help the elves, you’d do anything, no matter how much it hurt,” Ciri said as gently as she could. “And I know what it’s like to love someone who isn’t good for you.”

Try as she might, she couldn’t excise that piece of her heart that belonged to Mistle. Mistle, who’d loved her, but who she could admit, after years of distance and the help of hindsight, had also raped her. She knew now she’d never return to her if she were still alive. Not now that she’d been shown gentleness, respect, and affection, and never once had Owain’s hand felt like a small, warm snail she couldn’t escape.

“What I do for my people is not your business,” Briala said stiffly. The conflict in her eyes told Ciri there was more to it than that.

“Maybe so,” Ciri allowed, “but I still care.”

“For a stranger?”

“For an ally.” Ciri reached out and lightly touched Briala’s clenched hand. “One who deserves better from the people she cares for, and who should care for her in turn.”

“You…” Briala sighed. “I hear what you’re saying, as much as I wish I didn’t.”

“I _will_ stand with you,” Ciri promised again. “We’ll find a solution that doesn’t require you to sacrifice your happiness.”

“Ha.” Briala wound the cord around her fist and slumped against the railing. “‘If.’ I suspect it may already be too late for that.”

Ciri didn’t have an answer, and her hesitation drew another quiet scoff from Briala.

“Go, Inquisitor. You have leads to chase in the royal wing, and I have a duke and a marquis to speak with.”

She left the balcony, her mind unsettled and her heart uneasy. Courtiers were easy to turn aside with smiles and light compliments, and it was the work of mere minutes to get to the entrance of the royal wing. Someone shifted in the shadows, and she stepped forward to see Olgierd lurking behind a statue, Sera at his side. Cassandra hid in the nook on the other side of the door.

“Where are Iron Bull and Solas?” she asked.

“Bull was too big to go missing again,” Sera said. She shrugged, looking irritated. “Dunno where Solas got to. Only looked for a few minutes, though.”

Losing track of Solas in the midst of all this was the last thing she needed, but she just didn’t have time to hunt him down. “We’ll have to go without him.”

She cast a glance over her shoulder and pushed open the door, curiosity and worry congealing into a hard, sour knot in her stomach as she slipped inside.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> for those who missed it, "Herald" now has a second work for missing scenes and cut content that's ever so creatively titled "Herald Missing Scenes". The first one posted was Olgierd's introduction to Yvette in chapter 60!


	62. Machinations and a Monarch

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ciri investigates the royal wing and discovers how extensive Gaspard and Florianne's plots are. A choice has to be made, but is it the right one?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> beta-read by brightspot149. Thank you so much!
> 
> A little bit of canon dialogue used in this chapter. If you recognize it, it's not mine.

The chest had been deposited hastily in the corner of the foyer this time, parked between a bookshelf and a statue. Ciri unlatched the lid and began distributing the weapons and armor to her companions. She pulled out Olgierd’s rune-scribed robe and saber from the bottom and frowned at the drying smears of blood along the inside of the chest.

“We might have to leave the clothes on the top of the lid this time,” she said as she passed his belongings over. “Yours might not show bloodstains, but mine definitely will.”

“Better not,” Sera countered. “Anyone comes in after us and sees your gown minus a body, they’ll know somethin’s up.”

Ciri grimaced. “You have a fair point.”

Cassandra unlaced her again, and she made short work of changing into her armor. Olgierd took her gown and chemise and drew their sleeves through his robe’s, leaving only the bottom several inches of the skirts showing as he carefully folded them together.

“That should keep it safe enough,” he said with a small smile.

She shot him a grateful look. It seemed silly to care about their clothes at a time like this, but she hadn’t owned anything nearly so fine in years, and the thought of ruining it just added to her current worries.

Sera shut the trunk on their clothes and started up the carpeted marble stairs, her bow in hand and an arrow already nocked on the string.

“Have you been to this wing before?” Ciri asked her as she stepped quietly behind. She adjusted her dagger at her waist, so it sat closer to her hand.

“Twice, when I first got here and had a poke around,” Sera said distractedly. “Think I remember the route. This way – yeah, this way.”

She led them through an archway and into a lavish hall decorated with pillars and oil paintings of monarchs of ages past. Crown molding coated in gold leaf glinted down from far above their heads. The carpet runner beneath their feet was plush and thick.

Ciri looked around at the closed doors all up and down the hall, wondering where to start.

“You wanted to poke around for Gaspard’s men, yeah?” Sera asked.

“The captain is in the garden, but the more evidence we pull together to keep Gaspard from taking the throne, the better,” Ciri said.

She approached the nearest door to continue her investigation, but a strange, muffled shouting drew her attention farther down the hall.

Sera rolled her eyes. “Thought this place was supposed to be empty.”

“So did I.”

Ciri turned from the door and headed in the direction of the shouting, resting her hand on her dagger’s hilt. She found the noise coming from behind a warded door that gave off a low, static crackle.

“Hello?” a faintly panicked male voice called out from within. “Is anyone there? Somebody? Anybody?”

She fished out the token Josephine had given her and pressed it to the handle. The static dissipated, and she let herself in.

The room behind the warded door was utterly gorgeous, sumptuous in the extreme. A private study and sitting area greeted her first, complete with a greater-than-life-sized statue standing between two enormous bookcases. A short marble staircase in the center of the room seemed to lead to the bedchamber.

The voice called out again, and this time she heard manacles clank. “Please! Are you still there? Let me go!”

Ciri led the way up the stairs and walked around the enormous bed to stare down at the completely nude chevalier shackled to it, somehow – ridiculously – still wearing his helmet with the yellow feather.

“I’m sure there’s an explanation for this that will make sense,” she said, fixing her eyes on his rapidly reddening face.

“Honestly, it’s not what it looks like!” the chevalier sputtered. “The empress – she beguiled me, convinced me to betray the grand duke! She promised me I would be rewarded. This…is not what I’d hoped for.”

Sera snorted with laughter. “Yeah, _bet_ I know what you’d hoped for.”

“Really?” Ciri sighed. “Unbelievable.”

“I beg you, Your Worship, don’t tell Gaspard!” the chevalier pleaded. “She knows everything! His surprise attack, all his troop movements in the palace – it’s been turned into a trap! The moment he acts, he’ll be arrested for treason.”

“Tell Gaspard? Oh, no,” Ciri said. “I have a much better idea. You’ll tell Duke Cyril de Montfort and Marquis Renaud Mantillon of these plans yourself.”

His humiliated, reddened cheeks drained of color. “The Council of Heralds? You sign my death warrant, madame. I’d be a traitor twice over.”

Ciri looked him hard in the eyes until he averted his gaze uneasily. “Go to them. Tell them I sent you. They’ll want this information.”

He swallowed heavily and slumped in his manacles. “I…yes. I’ll go to them. Why not? I’ve betrayed them both now. I’ll be lucky to get out of this night alive, let alone with the right to my feather.”

Sera slipped past Ciri to start picking the locks on the manacles. “Stupid feather,” she muttered under her breath.

“What’s that?” the chevalier asked.

“I _said_ ,” Sera said loudly, “ _stupid feather_.” She gave him a hard, sharp-edged smile. “But I bet you never did anythin’ rotten to earn it. Did you?”

The chevalier looked at Sera’s ears, then at her bow, and paused as he took in the armor and weapons of the people surrounding him, and his own very vulnerable nudity.

“It is tradition,” he said, his voice weak.

“Bollocks to your shite tradition. Wot’s it got you, anyway? Tied to a bed with your bits out, in trouble with everyone.”

Wisely, the chevalier closed his mouth and looked away, his cheeks reddening again. Once freed, he sat up slowly, drawing the silk coverlet over his lap in a belated show of modesty. “I…I suppose I should find my armor,” he said. “Don’t worry; I’ll report to Duke Cyril and Marquis Renaud. You have my word.”

Ciri gave him a short nod and headed back down the stairs, Sera at her side and Olgierd and Cassandra just behind them.

“To the garden?” she suggested once she’d shut the door on the chevalier.

“Might as well,” Olgierd agreed. “Finding that mercenary captain will likely be the final nail in the coffin of Gaspard’s ambitions.”

Sera led them to a door at the far end of the hall. It opened into a space that was clearly under construction, with scaffolding and piles of boards lining the walls, and furniture and statues hidden beneath sheets.

“Garden’s that way,” Sera said with a gesture to the lone door at the other end of the space.

Ciri flinched and flexed her marked hand as they approached it, her palm sparking and tingling painfully. “Careful,” she warned the others in a low voice. “There’s a rift out there.”

Cassandra tensed. “A rift? Then why would the captain be there?”

“There’s only one way to find out,” she said, and she pushed open the door and stepped through, her hand on her dagger again.

A faint emerald glow lit the garden ahead. She walked out quietly from between two carved marble pillars, only to stop short. Eight Venatori archers stood surrounding them in a half-circle, bows drawn taut and arrows aimed unerringly at their hearts. Above them, a sleeping rift shifted lazily.

A voice called out, and Ciri tore her eyes from the arrows to search the balcony above her head.

“We meet again, mongrel!”

She blinked at the painted face. The voice was vaguely familiar, but…

Olgierd snorted. “You? That shrieking popinjay from the market in Val Royeaux?”

“Have a care who you mock, dog lord,” the bard said with a sneer. “I am not the one in danger.”

Cassandra snapped her fingers. “Cock! That’s who he is. I remember him. Agnesot’s toady.”

“ _Le Coq_!” he almost howled. He took a deep breath and stared down at them furiously. “ _Vicomte_ Loys le Coq. Not that you’ll need to remember my name for long. No. I have been charged with delivering your deaths tonight.”

“Wot, another one?” Sera asked. “Pfft. Get in line, prick.”

A strangled screech escaped le Coq. “Silence! You are surrounded, fools! You heathens, you traitors! My patron will reward me handsomely for your death, mongrel, and Divine Renata will grant me a fortune when I bring her your head.”

Ciri’s eyes sharpened on le Coq’s painted face, and the Iron Bull’s words from earlier came to her. Bards discarded their masks and painted their faces when their activities couldn’t be traced back to their patron.

A vicomte had to have a very powerful patron.

There were only so many players with that much power and prestige in the Orlesian Grand Game.

And only one of them had been keen on sending her to the royal wing of the palace.

“Well,” she said calmly, holding her hands at her sides, “you certainly have us at a disadvantage. But if you could answer just three questions for me, I’d be most appreciative.”

“I will be generous, half-breed, and give you two,” le Coq said. He gave her a mocking bow. “After all, you were kind enough to waltz into our trap.”

Ciri chose her words carefully, all too aware of the eight arrows pointed her way. “You spoke so ardently in Celene’s defense when we first met. Why are you in the company of the Venatori now?”

“She is weak,” he said scornfully. “The Divine and my patron opened my eyes to the truth. Our great empire will crumble with Celene at her helm. Her death is a stepping-stone to a greater world. Sometimes –” He broke off, and for just a moment he looked conflicted. “Sometimes, one must ally with a monster to defeat a greater evil. Orlais will rise triumphant tonight, and her chief enemy, the _wretched_ pretender to the dynasty, will fall instead.”

“Oh, you poor, deluded fool,” Olgierd said under his breath.

Le Coq didn’t hear his murmur, and he gave Ciri another sneer. “And your final question before you die?”

“Is Florianne the one filling the Red Divine’s coffers, or is it another one of Corypheus’ lackeys?”

Le Coq stiffened, and he gestured to the archers. “Loose!”

In the corner of her eye, Ciri saw Cassandra shove Sera down flat as Olgierd disappeared in a burst of black and red smoke. Her palm still stinging terribly, she drew on her magic and threw herself through space and time. She came out behind an archer, her sword drawn, and struck him across his spine. The keen edge of the blade split the cloth armor, slicing deep into flesh and bone. The archer cried out and went limp.

She disappeared again, her hand a heavy, numb weight at her side. Another archer fell. Then another, and another. On she went. She reappeared by the panicked eighth archer and parried a wild shot, only to thrust her sword forward and end his life. She groaned quietly and clenched her hand as she glanced around the garden.

“ _Merde_ ,” le Coq moaned.

Ciri looked over to see him sprawled across the grass, Olgierd looming over him with his saber at his throat. One of his knees looked badly out of joint.

“Did you throw him from the balcony?” she asked.

Olgierd smiled faintly. “Seemed the fastest way to get him down.”

Cassandra got off Sera and extended her hand to her, and Sera took it, springing to her feet. “Lady Ciri!” she exclaimed, looking her up and down in concern. “Should you have done that? Are you well?”

“Did I have a choice?” Ciri countered. She winced and shook out her hand again. “I’m…it’s fine. It’ll keep, anyway.”

Le Coq tried and failed to rise as he pulled a dagger from its sheath at his waist. Olgierd scoffed and kicked it from his hand, sending it skidding across the grass.

“ _Merde_!” he swore again. He glared up as Ciri approached with Cassandra and Sera. “I won’t surrender, mongrel! You’re too late to stop us. We’ve already won!”

Ciri sighed and crouched down beside his head. “A friend of mine told me once that mercy is my strength,” she told him. “A Carta dwarf once jeered at me for being _too_ merciful. I’m not sure where to draw the line sometimes, though I always try to err on the side of kindness. But –”

He reared his head back and hawked a glob of spit at her, and she rocked back on her heels as Olgierd dug the tip of his saber a little deeper into le Coq’s neck.

“– But I am rapidly running out of mercy tonight,” she said evenly, wiping the spit from her cheek.

Olgierd’s sword flashed, and le Coq’s throat split open. He choked and coughed, staring up with wild eyes, then slumped back, his face slack.

Ciri stood and turned away from le Coq’s body. Olgierd came to her side and took her hand gently by the wrist, turning her palm up. They both frowned at the slightly widened lines. The two longest ones seemed to have grown fractionally.

“Never again,” he told her.

“I can’t promise that.”

“Can you at least let that be?” he asked her with a nod at the inactive rift curving gently in the air above them.

She winced. “I think I must.”

She’d strained the mark beyond its capacity by teleporting so much in so quick a succession. She doubted she’d be able to use it again until after Triss or Solas drew more magic from it in Skyhold.

“ _Mm-mmf! MMF!_ ”

“Bet you coin that’s our captain,” Sera said, peering into the darkened garden.

“I certainly hope so,” Ciri said. She led the way away from the bloody scene and toward the muffled sounds of struggle.

She found the source just around the corner, tied to a pole and red with fury behind a dirty gag. A rugged-looking man in battered leather and steel armor surged forward in his bonds as he spotted them, straining at the ropes holding him. " _MMF! HMMF!_ ”

Ciri cut him loose with her dagger, and he ripped the gag from his mouth with a gasp and a curse. “That painted Orlesian arsehole! Never would have got the drop on me without them fucking Tevinters helping him.”

“Why did they have you tied up here?” Cassandra asked him.

Sera snorted. “Obvious, innit? He’s the bait.”

“I knew Orlesians were stingy bastards, but I didn’t think Gaspard would have me staked out over a damned bill,” the mercenary captain griped. “I haven’t even sent my men in yet. Not going to now. You can bloody count on that.”

“This wasn’t Gaspard’s doing,” Ciri told him. “It was his sister’s. But you’re too late, anyway. Celene already knows about his plan of attack. You’d only lose men if you followed through.”

“Good enough for me,” the captain said firmly. “Already seemed too risky when we took the job. Asked for triple the usual pay for it. Stinking poncy cheesemongers,” he muttered under his breath.

“Would you be willing to talk to a few of those ‘poncy cheesemongers’?” Ciri asked. “Duke Cyril de Montfort, Marquis Renaud Mantillon, Comtesse Solange Montbelliard, and Lord Laurent de Ghislain? They ought to know what Gaspard had planned. If you testify to his plans, the Inquisition will protect you from reprisals.”

The captain frowned to himself, then nodded. “Fine. You want me to talk to a duke, or a lord, or sing a blasted song in a chantry, I’ll do it.”

He brushed past them and stomped back toward the door they’d come from, muttering to himself again.

“Should we follow him?” Cassandra asked Sera.

“No. This way’s faster.” She led them to a door along the far side of the garden and shoved it open. “Straight shot through the chapel and we’re there.”

They rushed through the lavish chapel, Ciri barely taking note of the vibrant stained-glass windows and painted panels, and sped down the dark staircase at the other end of the room. The walls grew rougher as they descended, the marble floor giving way to common flagstone. The staircase ended at a grim, empty stairwell and a plain archway on the left side of the room. Sounds of movement came from just beyond.

Ciri gripped _Gynvael_ again and nodded to the others. Cassandra hefted her shield before her and charged through with a shout.

A painted bard went flying as the shield smacked him across the jaw. Sera’s arrow speared another Venatori archer through his mask’s eyehole. Ciri rushed to the downed bard and lashed out with her blade before he could rise again. Olgierd threw a fistful of flames at a Venatori warrior and followed through with a cleaving blow as the man screeched in pain and panic.

“Come on,” Sera urged them the moment the fighting stopped.

She shoved open a door at the other end of the hall to reveal another small garden full of scaffolding, a massive statue of Andraste in the center. They followed her through, past the statue and around a scaffold to another door. Finally, _finally_ , their surroundings looked familiar again. The patterned marble flooring, floor-length windows, and tall, stately blue drapery all seemed to indicate that they were getting closer to their destination.

Sera jerked her thumb at the door to the right. “Ballroom’s through there.”

“We’ll make a scene if we enter in armor,” Olgierd murmured.

“There’s no helping that now,” Ciri sighed. “Let’s go.”

Ciri slipped through the door quietly and looked around. Blessedly, no one seemed to have noticed their arrival yet – or if they had, they were waiting to see how they should react first before rushing to judgment. Across the ballroom, Florianne strolled along with Gaspard, both of them nodding regally to courtiers and occasionally waving. They hadn’t seemed to have spotted her yet.

She saw movement in the crowd coming her way and relaxed slightly at the sight of Owain’s reassuring bulk and Triss’ chestnut hair. Leliana and Cullen came just behind them.

Owain looked her over, veiled worry in his eyes. “You ran into trouble?”

"More than we expected," Ciri said quietly. "Florianne set us up. One of her lackeys was there with over a half-dozen Venatori archers. We weren't meant to come back at all, let alone in time to deal with her."

“So Florianne – _Papillon_ – is Corypheus’ agent?” Leliana asked. “Then she means to assassinate Celene as well as you.”

“That’s what le Coq said,” Ciri confirmed.

“Celene’s about to give her speech,” Cullen told them. Sure enough, at the far end of the ballroom, courtiers were clearing out, and Celene was making her way to the railing. Ciri caught sight of Florianne’s standing collar as she headed slowly in Celene’s direction.

“How do you want to handle this?” Triss asked.

“Get our people into position,” Ciri said. The sour knot in her stomach tightened, and she added, “Wait until Florianne strikes to apprehend her.”

From the start, she’d hated the thought of saving Celene and letting her go on to commit another atrocity. After what she’d learned tonight, she knew she couldn’t do it. The ‘lesser evil’ could go hang. Sometimes all there was was the least wrong decision, and from where she stood, this was it.

At her side, Cassandra jolted. “Lady Ciri?”

“She’s too dangerous,” she said, every inch of her fed up and exhausted. “Her, Gaspard, Florianne. They’re all too dangerous. And I’m not inclined to give any of them another chance.”

Sera whistled under her breath.

Cullen bowed with his fist over his heart. “By your command.”

Owain gave her a nod, his face free of judgment, and the knot let up just the slightest bit. They turned to carry out her orders without argument.

Olgierd leaned in to speak into her ear. “It might be best if I positioned myself by Josephine and her sister. She worries for Yvette’s safety.”

“Of course. Go to them.”

He flashed her a brief look of gratitude and strode off, leaving her with Cassandra and Sera. The three of them moved carefully through the crowd for a better look at Celene and Florianne.

The court herald’s voice cut across the low chatter as they approached the railing. “Let all gathered attend! Her Imperial Majesty will now address the court!”

He bowed and stepped out of the way as Celene drew forward. Ciri studied the crowd, her attention split between Celene’s words and the people watching her.

“My friends, we have lost much…”

Gaspard stood on the dais directly below her, his hands folded behind his back and his shoulders squared. She couldn’t quite make out the lower half of his face from here, but she assumed he was playing along, secure in the assumption that his attack would go off smoothly.

There was no sign of Florianne yet. Celene’s speech was full of meaningless platitudes that her courtiers ate up, and at its end, the ballroom swelled with enthusiastic applause. Ciri slowly began to make her way toward the empress, Cassandra and Sera at her heels.

“Tonight, the war dividing us must end!” Celene swept an arm out to the side, and Florianne stepped from the shadows to join her at her side.

“My friends, we are here to witness a historic moment,” Florianne said grandly, her hands gesturing as she spoke. "A great change is coming for all of us." The tone of her voice changed slightly, and Gaspard looked up sharply as she added, circling behind the empress, "Isn't that right, Gaspard?"

Florianne’s arm jerked forward, and Celene let out a pained gasp. A dark stain began to spread across the stomach of her gown. She crumpled to a heap at Florianne’s feet as the grand duchess wrenched the dagger out. Courtiers screamed in panic, grabbing at each other and rushing toward the vestibule. Ciri elbowed her way through the milling crowd, her eyes fixed on Florianne.

“Florianne!” Gaspard cried out from below. “What have you done?”

“Don’t be coy, brother!” she laughingly called back. “This was just as we planned! I did this for you!”

He recoiled. “For _me_? Have you gone mad?”

Ciri finally broke through, and she saw that Duke Cyril and Briala had arrived on the other side of the walkway. Duke Cyril held a rapier in his trembling hand, and Briala stood steady at his side, two gleaming silverite daggers in her grip.

“Not for you,” Ciri said coldly. “For Corypheus. It appears the butterfly has spread her wings and flown to a new patron.”

“I will deliver Corypheus the entire south of Thedas,” Florianne declared, “and when he enters the Black City and claims his godhood, I will rule it in his name!”

“You are a _lunatic_ ,” Briala whispered, her eyes wet.

“Grand Duchess Florianne de Chalons.” Duke Cyril stopped and blinked away angry tears. “You have committed high treason against the empire and her imperial majesty. Surrender quietly or face justice now.”

“Surrender?” she said with a sharp laugh. “Never! For Corypheus! Kill them!”

Sounds of fighting broke out across the ballroom at her words, and Ciri looked away from her for a scant moment and saw a dozen painted bards clashing with Inquisition soldiers and the imperial guard. She turned back to see Florianne race out the double doors leading to the garden, and she held in a curse and tore off after her.

Florianne spun around at the top of the stairs, her dagger held at the ready. From behind Ciri, Duke Cyril and Briala came around to flank her, with Cassandra and Sera moving in to fill in the gaps.

“Really, Inquisitor, you played your part beautifully,” Florianne taunted her. “Celene and Gaspard destroyed in a single blow. The Council of Heralds will fight over the throne for ages, and while they do, Corypheus will come. Truly, I wasn’t lying. There is _much_ to admire about a masterstroke like that.”

“You conniving fiend, Florianne,” Duke Cyril spat. “Orlais will survive your treachery! We on the Council will do our duty!”

“Your duty is to stand aside and let a new world be born from the ashes of the old,” Florianne retorted.

“A pity you won’t live to see it,” Briala said as she adjusted her grip on her daggers. “You die tonight.”

Florianne sprang over the railing into the garden, her skirts flying up dramatically. Briala flew after her, and Ciri rushed to follow. She heard footfalls thump behind her as the others followed suit. She drew _Gynvael_ and rolled away from a blindingly fast dagger strike, coming up to parry another swift slice at her abdomen.

Sera sent arrows flying that Florianne seemed to dodge with uncanny ease. Cassandra’s blows never reached her.

Ciri, Briala, and Duke Cyril surrounded her, striking at her with sword and dagger. Florianne whirled and dodged, feinted and parried, their blades only managing to graze her.

Briala swore and called out to Duke Cyril. “Her hand!”

Ciri saw his gaze flicker, just for the barest moment, to Florianne’s left hand, and his face grew grim.

He redoubled his attack, circling to face her head-on. Ciri struck again and again, each attack thwarted, but each one drawing the tiniest bit more of Florianne's attention. Sera began hurling insults along with her arrows, and Florianne’s brow furrowed with every fresh taunt. Cassandra angrily stalked the sidelines, impatiently looking for an opening.

“ _Aaargh_!”

Three bloody fingers and a shining silver ring fell to the grass, and suddenly, Ciri’s next slash hit flesh and bone. Duke Cyril’s rapier scored a deep cut across Florianne’s chest. Briala ended it with a hard stab to her ribs.

They stood over her corpse for a few seconds, just catching their breath. Then, slowly, Duke Cyril bent to pick up the blood-covered ring, and he examined it with a hard eye.

“As you thought,” he said to Briala. “One of Dowager Marquise Mantillon’s little gifts to those who measured up to her standards in the Grand Game. You recognized it from…from Celene’s hand, I presume?”

Briala nodded. “And Gaspard’s.”

“Of course.” He spotted Ciri’s confusion and explained, “Rings that make you nearly unbeatable in combat. Faster, more agile, able to deduce your opponent’s next move. She only gifted them to those who arranged the death of another.” He clenched his hand around it briefly, then extended it to Briala. “You fought well, Ambassador. You’d fight better with her ring.”

Briala took it cautiously, and she gave him a respectful nod as she pulled out a linen handkerchief to wipe the blood from it.

Duke Cyril turned to Ciri, his grief clear even through his mask. “I’ve heard of your powers, Inquisitor. Everyone has. Your Fade step is said to reach for miles. How did you not save my cousin? Our empress?”

Briala’s eyes flickered at that, but she stayed silent.

The hard knot in Ciri’s stomach made an abrupt reappearance. She stood by her decision, but she liked Duke Cyril, and she found herself reaching for an explanation that she hoped wouldn’t add to his pain.

She held out her aching, marked hand, the jagged green lines crossing her palm shining in the moonlight.

“It’s killing me,” she told him. “Every time I use magic, every time I ‘Fade step,’ the mark pulls open wider. I’m under orders not to, but I was forced to tonight anyway in the royal wing thanks to Florianne’s trap. I feared I might lose my hand if I used it again so soon.”

He stared down at her palm, then into her eyes searchingly. She held his gaze, and after a long moment, he sagged and looked away. “The Maker’s blessing is a heavy burden to carry,” he murmured.

“I’m sorry for your loss, Your Grace,” Ciri said quietly. And she did truly regret his grief.

He sighed and shook his head. “Come, Inquisitor, Ambassador. We should tell the court that the danger has passed.”

The fighting had died down inside the ballroom as the five of them returned. Ciri’s advisors swarmed the door from one direction, Olgierd shadowing Josephine and Yvette Montilyet clinging to her sister’s sleeve like a burr. The rest of the Council of Heralds came from the other direction, accompanied by Grand Duke Gaspard and two imperial guards. A rather flustered-looking herald hovered behind the Council, wringing his hands.

“Ci – _Inquisitor_ ,” Josephine exclaimed. “Are you alright?”

“We’re fine, Josephine,” Ciri assured her. “And you? Did the fighting reach you?”

“It – it came quite near, but –”

“But Messere Olgierd was very brave!” Yvette interrupted, her eyes shining. She sobered abruptly as she looked around at all the serious faces.

“Enough of this nonsense,” Gaspard cut in. He glared at Ciri and Briala and jabbed a finger at them angrily. “As your next emperor, I demand their arrest. These creatures have been all over the palace tonight. They must have known Florianne’s plan. They could have stopped her!”

“Our next emperor?” Marquis Renaud echoed, his voice dangerously soft. “You will mind yourself, Your Grace. A half-naked chevalier is spilling a most interesting tale to the captain of the imperial guard right now. As is a foul-mouthed Ferelden mercenary. The Inquisitor’s Qunari companion, the Iron Bull, relinquished an intriguing dagger into my custody not half an hour ago – one found in the back of one of our murdered emissaries, fashioned with _your_ family crest on its hilt. Who, then, should we arrest?”

The unmasked half of Gaspard's face paled, but still, he protested swiftly, "I know nothing of any such dagger. The brute must have planted it."

“And where would he get your property?” Comtesse Solange asked. “No, this was either you or your sister, and given your threats against our Council, I’m not inclined to give you the benefit of the doubt.”

“Really, Gaspard,” Comte Lothair said. "Did Florianne's act outrage you because it is right and just to be outraged when the empress is assassinated? Or were you merely angry that she did it so publicly and foiled your plan to steal the throne tonight?"

Gaspard took a wary step back. “You cannot believe I’d mean to kill my cousin!”

Marquis Etienne de Chevin’s voice was hard as steel. “We can, and we do. Guards. Take the grand duke into custody. The charge is treason.”

For a moment it seemed that Gaspard would put up a fight. Then, as the guards each took an arm, it was as if he’d aged thirty years in a second, and all his spirit fled. He trudged away between them, his eyes staring sightlessly ahead. Silence fell in his wake, and none seemed keen to break it. At last, Duke Germain de Chalons spoke, an aching note of sorrow in his aged voice.

“And so ends the greatest of dynasties.”

Marquis Renaud clapped him on the shoulder and was irritably brushed off. “We cannot let our grief forestall our duties,” he said, looking around at the rest of the Council. His gaze included Ciri and Briala in his words. “By order of precedence, the throne falls to a cousin. And there _must_ be someone on the throne before the night ends.”

“Or,” Comte Lothair began with a questioning look toward Ciri.

“I’m not a Valmont!” she exclaimed. “Honestly, what does it take to make people listen around here?”

“Bribery and a few well-placed deaths,” Comtesse Solange said wryly. “A cousin, then.”

“We are not Ferelden, after all,” Marquis Etienne muttered.

Duke Cyril and Duke Germain glanced at each other, and Duke Germain shook his head.

“I’m far too old,” Duke Germain demurred. “But Comte Brevin –”

“Old or not, put _Brevin de Chalons_ forward and I’ll call you out for a duel,” Marquis Etienne interrupted. “The man cost me my good name with his lies about that elf-blooded peasant. He doesn’t have the character for the throne.”

“I withdraw the suggestion,” Duke Germain said. “I’d forgotten, Marquis. I apologize.”

“That leaves only you, Your Grace,” Comtesse Solange said to Duke Cyril.

He let out a shaky breath. “Andraste, it does, doesn’t it? It was never supposed to be like this.”

Comte Lothair cleared his throat. “I’ll open the floor to any objections to what appears to be our only option.”

Duke Cyril laughed faintly at that, a soft, mostly humorless sound. “I can always trust you to keep me humble, my friend.”

“We’ve had twenty years without an heir to the empire,” Marquis Etienne said, “and you’re unmarried. We can’t afford such continued instability.”

“I will marry, then, if I must,” Duke Cyril said. “Within two years, if that satisfies.”

Ciri, her advisors, and Briala stood by in silence as the rest of the Council politely, but rather incisively, asking him about policy, war, the treasury, the Game, and whether there was anything in his past or personal life he could be blackmailed with. His answers, while not entirely pleasing to them, managed to satisfy at all turns.

At last Comte Lothair nodded in satisfaction. “And in favor?”

Duke Germain stepped forward. “Given that my family seems out of favor for now, and you did just slay Empress Celene’s assassin…I, Duke Germain de Chalons, accept Cyril de Montfort as Celene Valmont’s successor to the imperial throne.”

The others spoke up with their votes in order of precedence, a heavy, solemn formality to their words.

“I, Lord Laurent de Ghislain, speaking as proxy for Duke Bastien de Ghislain, accept Cyril de Montfort as Celene Valmont’s successor to the imperial throne.”

“I, Marquis Renaud Mantillon, accept Cyril de Montfort as Celene Valmont’s successor to the imperial throne.”

“I, Marquis Etienne de Chevin, accept Cyril de Montfort as Celene Valmont’s successor to the imperial throne.”

“I, Comtesse Solange Montbelliard, accept Cyril de Montfort as Celene Valmont’s successor to the imperial throne.”

“And I, Comte Lothair Doucy, accept Cyril de Montfort as Celene Valmont’s successor to the imperial throne.” He nodded again to a speechless Duke Cyril. “We’ll need to do this again properly with ballots and a court scribe, and it won’t be set in stone until the coronation itself, but it will stand for now. Soon we’ll all be calling you Your Imperial Majesty.”

For just a moment, it seemed that Marquis Etienne’s eyes held a glint of triumph, and there was satisfaction in the set of Comtesse Solange and Lord Laurent’s mouths. Then the moment passed, and Ciri couldn’t be certain.

Duke Cyril’s eyes glistened, and his voice shook with suppressed emotion. “I will not dishonor your faith in me. Nor will I dishonor the memory of my cousin.”

Comtesse Solange swept into a low, graceful curtsey. “Your first command, Your Grace?”

“Celene’s body should be seen to,” he said after a moment, “as should those of the brave servants who fell to Florianne’s conspirators in the servants’ wing. And I should address the court as well, to allay fears.”

“Wise of you,” Marquis Renaud agreed.

“Lady Inquisitor, Orlais might have fallen tonight, or a traitor might have taken the throne, but for your actions,” Duke Cyril said. “What reward would you ask of our empire?”

“Treat your people better,” Ciri said simply. In the corner of her eye, Briala straightened. “The elves of Orlais deserve far more than they’ve been given.”

Marquis Etienne frowned, but Duke Cyril just looked at her evenly. “You have my word.”

“And I never could have stopped Gaspard without Ambassador Briala,” she added. “She did just as much as I did, if not more.”

“I have not forgotten the ambassador.” Duke Cyril turned to Briala.

Briala looked at him warily.

“Ambassador Briala, without the diligent efforts of you and Inquisitor Morhen, we never would have uncovered Gaspard’s treachery. I know…” He trailed off and said quite gently, "I know my cousin thought well of you, and had she lived, she would have seen you rewarded for all you did on her behalf tonight. There are vacancies in the nobility – deaths without heirs, or traitors who were recently stripped of their holdings –"

“You’re surely joking,” Marquis Etienne interjected.

“I am not,” Duke Cyril said flatly. “The question is not ‘do we raise Briala to nobility,’ it is ‘how high,’ and ‘which estate to go with it?’ Do we give her Val Gamord and the title of marquise? Lac d’Argent as a vicomtesse? Perhaps Verchiel – she is, after all, the architect of Gaspard’s downfall. And that’s a duchy.”

Duke Germain’s face went red beneath his mask. “You will keep your hands off my family’s ancestral estate!”

“Oh, but I’m liking this idea,” said Marquis Renaud. “One might call it poetic justice, given the number of times Gaspard asked for leave to go and hunt the Dalish. We can’t reward the ambassador with so paltry a title as vicomtesse.”

Lord Laurent sighed as Duke Germain sputtered. “Fine! Marquise Briala of Val Gamord. May she prove less of a shifty criminal than the late Marquise Bouffon. Any objections?” There were some low grumbles, but no one outright objected. “The motion passes. Allow me to be the first to congratulate you, Marquise.”

Briala dipped him a shallow curtsey, then turned and gave Duke Cyril a much deeper one. The soon-to-be emperor inclined his head to her gravely.

“Your Grace,” she murmured. “Thank you.”

“I should like to have a much longer conversation with you,” he told her. “When the night is through.”

“I shall make myself available,” she said.

Duke Cyril looked to the younger members of the Council of Heralds, and a ghost of a smile crossed his lips. “Time to face the music, my friends.”

As one, Ciri, Briala, the advisors, and the Council of Heralds all either curtseyed or bowed, and he drew in an uneven breath at the motion before squaring his shoulders and striding away. The herald, still hovering on the fringes of their crowd, broke off and hurried after him to speak hastily into his ear, and Duke Cyril listened and nodded.

The herald went ahead to the railing, and called out in a clear, carrying voice, “Let all gathered attend! Duke Cyril de Montfort will now address the court!”

There was a low susurration and some scattered exclamations as the quicker courtiers made the connection as to what Duke Cyril addressing them meant. Then the herald stepped aside, and they all fell silent.

Duke Cyril approached the railing and lifted a hand. “My friends,” he began solemnly, “tonight has been marred by the most tragic of events. Treachery has stolen our beloved empress from us. Two separate plots of treason were uncovered tonight, one fostered within our chevalier order, the other concocted on behalf of the vile Corypheus.

“The danger has passed, but our heartache will take longer to fade. And with the death of Florianne de Chalons and the arrest of her brother Gaspard, it is with a heavy heart that I accept the crown that the Council of Heralds has seen fit to place upon my head.”

Whispers broke out again, and he lifted his hand a second time to quell them.

“Now is the time for Orlais to come together, united as one people. The civil war is over, and we shall have peace. Let us build an empire with prosperity and harmony for all Orlais’ subjects. And to lay the cornerstone of that foundation, I introduce to you the newest member of our court: Marquise Briala of Val Gamord, without whom Gaspard de Chalons’ treason would never have been uncovered.”

The whispers took on a different tone as Duke Cyril turned from the railing to beckon Briala to join him. It subsided grudgingly at her approach.

Briala looked out across the crowd, her spine straight, and spoke. “There is little joy in being so honored in the aftermath of such a great loss. But this is a triumph, not just for me, or for elves, or even Orlais. It is a triumph for everyone. Over a thousand years ago in the Valarian Fields, elves and humans standing together defeated the Imperium. We can achieve so much more together now. As one, we will start by saving our world from the enemy who cast down the Divine and tore the sky apart.”

“Inquisitor Morhen,” Duke Cyril said, beckoning again. Ciri came forward as he continued. “Orlais stands ready to assist the Inquisition in its fight against Corypheus.”

“Thank you, Your Grace.” Ciri addressed the crowd. “Corypheus is an enemy out of the history books, pulled from the pages of the Chant. His powers are great, and his followers are many. But we have defeated him before. If we stand firm against him, he will fall again.”

“And so we shall,” Duke Cyril said. “But for now, let the music resume. Tonight shall be a celebration of Empress Celene’s memory. Do not go forth in grief, my friends. Let Orlais’ resilient heart be the rhythm that guides your steps tonight.”

With that, the band struck up the notes for a sarabande, and Duke Cyril stepped back from the railing to applause.

“Poetic,” Briala murmured to him.

“Marquise, we’re Orlesian,” he replied, that faint hint of humor resurfacing. He sighed. “Maker, when will this night be over?”

“Not quite yet,” Comte Lothair said. “We need to join the imperial guard and take down the accounts of that mercenary captain and the chevalier who turned on Gaspard, to get an official record for his trial. And we must decide what to do with Celene’s apostate.”

“Let’s get that over with, then.” Duke Cyril bowed shallowly to Ciri and Briala. “Inquisitor Morhen, Marquise Briala, thank you for all your efforts tonight.”

The Council of Heralds swept away, leaving Ciri with only the Inquisition members, Briala, and Josephine’s sister.

“That was…unexpected,” Josephine said. “You don’t often get to see history being made. Normally the Council of Heralds sequesters themselves for such a decision."

“I imagine they felt they were pressed for time,” Leliana said.

“Well, now that _that’s_ happened,” Raúl said, “how would you like us to proceed?”

Ciri gave him a tired shrug. “Mingle. Dance. Shore up support for Marquise Briala and the new emperor. Have our soldiers continue to keep an eye out. Send someone to the royal wing to fetch the chest with our clothes. I’m going to go get some air.”

She walked away toward the balcony she’d spoken to Briala on, feeling the prickle of concerned stares pepper her back. Briala called out after her as she reached the door, and she stopped and turned back.

“You kept your word,” Briala said, her eyes intent on hers. “I won’t forget it.”

Ciri nodded to her solemnly, and she slipped out the door to plant her hands on the railing and just breathe, her head hanging low.

She’d told the spirit of command back in Crestwood that she had no interest in changing the fate of nations. Yet here she was tonight, an accessory to regicide. She’d ended a five-hundred-year-old dynasty.

The Lodge of Sorceresses would be proud.

But Duke Cyril – soon to be Emperor Cyril – was a good man. He’d ennobled Briala as his first act with the backing of the Council of Heralds, and it seemed like he had more planned for her. His speech to the court was encouraging as well.

She took another deep breath and felt the knot in her stomach release slightly. It had been the right choice. Florianne had been allied with Corypheus, and Celene’s order to purge the alienage in Halamshiral had been monstrous. Now they were both dead, and a racist warmonger was in custody, likely to soon lose his life. Orlais’ elves and human and dwarven commoners had a brighter future under Duke Cyril’s rule.

Familiar footsteps sounded behind her, and she looked over her shoulder to see Owain step onto the balcony and shut the door behind him. He crossed the short distance to stand at her side, and when she leaned against him tiredly, he wrapped his arms around her and pulled her back to his chest.

“For what it’s worth, I think you made the right decision,” he told her quietly.

“It’s worth a lot. Thank you.” She rested her head against the cool silk of his doublet and closed her eyes. “I think they might have used me. The marquis, the comtesse, and the duke’s son.”

“Not Duke Cyril?”

“No, he was genuinely stricken.” Or possibly a far better actor than she’d given him credit for.

“Does that change your mind about Celene and Gaspard?”

“No.” Tension released from her shoulders as she admitted that. “Tell me something good came from tonight that didn’t require bloodshed. I know you and the others were busy while I was running around chasing leads.”

“Hm.” His voice was a soft rumble beneath her ear. “Triss and Comtesse Solange negotiated something for the free mages. You’ll have to get the details from her later. We made several trade deals, received promises of recruits and equipment. Oh, and my sister is speaking to Cullen again.”

“Is that good?”

“That’s for her to decide, I suppose.” His arms tightened around her, and she turned in his hold and brought hers up to wrap around his broad back. “I never got those dances you promised me.”

“I don’t think I’m quite up to dancing,” she admitted. “If we could just…stay like this? For a moment?”

“For as long as you like.”

She relaxed into his embrace and tried to set her mind at ease. There was no going back and choosing a different path; this was the one they were forced to walk now, for good or ill, and she truly believed she’d made the right choice. But Duke Cyril’s grief and Briala’s wet eyes would haunt her sleep tonight.


	63. Crossroads and Selflessness

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mother Giselle has a letter from Tevinter, and Ciri has to confront Solas' disappearance with her advisors in the War Room. Morrigan reveals something unexpected. Josephine has news for Olgierd that reminds him all too strongly of the past.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> beta-read by brightspot149. Thank you!

“And that’s dealt with, thank goodness.”

Ciri stretched on her loveseat and handed off the last of the agenda items to Owain, resting her head on his shoulder. It was a relief to be back at Skyhold after everything that had happened at the Winter Palace. She still felt a tinge of guilt over her decision, but the reports coming back from Leliana’s agents only seemed to reinforce that it was the right one.

“And your hand’s better?” he asked, gently twining his fingers through hers.

“It’s the same as it was the last time you asked,” she told him, leaning up to kiss him. “Pins and needles. But it doesn’t hurt like it did on the way back to Skyhold.”

Her hand had been the first thing tended to on their arrival at Skyhold, and now it was back to its usual prickly sensitivity after Triss and Solas had drawn magic from it into three of the chrysoprase discs. But they’d given her a dire warning: any further magic use beyond closing rifts would open the anchor beyond repair. That was her very last chance.

“Mm.” He turned her palm up to expose the shattered mark and said quietly, “We’ll need to talk about him, you know.”

“I know. But not now.”

Solas had been apologetic once she’d found him in the aftermath of the masquerade’s events, and deeply remorseful at the sight of her worsened anchor. Ciri quietly let his excuse of needing to find the garderobe go unquestioned, but she’d sought out Briala afterward and asked her to have her people look into it. He’d been up to something, and she’d find out what.

Owain laid an apologetic kiss on her hair and murmured, “You still smell amazing.”

She smiled and squeezed his hand. All her fripperies were safely stowed away; the gown in a cedar chest, the slippers in her wardrobe, and Iori Trevelyan’s necklace returned with mingled gratitude and relief. She was back in trousers and a linen shirt again, her hair in a simple bun. Her wolfs-head amulet and agate pendant were a comforting weight after having been parted from them for even one night.

But she’d kept the perfume. A little luxury to wear in Skyhold, just for herself.

“We should get to the meeting,” she said. “Judging by the stack, there’s quite a bit to address.”

“I’m right behind you.”

Ciri reluctantly sat up and took back the stack of parchment from Owain, and they made their way down the stairs from her quarters to the main hall. She stopped and stood for a moment by the door, just looking around. There were new faces today. A handful of elaborately dressed Orlesian nobles lingered in the hall, chatting together lightly. And she spotted a few elves she hadn’t seen before, either, all of them sharp-eyed and unobtrusively armed.

Duke Cyril’s open declaration of support and Briala’s promise of an alliance had paid off already.

“I think the revered mother wants a word,” Owain murmured. He made a low gesture at a figure hovering halfway down the hall.

Sure enough, Revered Mother Giselle was watching Ciri closely, not moving a jot from the spot she’d staked out.

“You go on ahead,” Ciri told Owain. “I’ll catch up in a moment.”

He nodded and gave her a swift kiss before striding off toward the War Room. Ciri headed further into the main hall, and as she drew closer to Mother Giselle, she could see a glint of concern in her dark eyes.

“Can I help you, Revered Mother?” Ciri asked.

“My Lady Inquisitor, I appreciate you giving me a moment of your time,” Revered Mother Giselle began. Her hands played absently with a sealed letter written on good parchment. “I have news regarding one of your…companions. The Tevinter.”

Ciri frowned at the veiled distaste in Mother Giselle’s words. “By ‘the Tevinter,’ I assume you mean Dorian Pavus,” she corrected her. “My good friend, and the man who went against his mentor to save the free mages of Thedas from slavery in Redcliffe.”

Mother Giselle drew back slightly. “I apologize. I admit his presence here makes me uncomfortable. But that is no reason to slight him. Your words are true; he has done much for the Inquisition.”

“Apology accepted,” Ciri said coolly. “What is it you need?”

“I have been in contact with his family, House Pavus,” Mother Giselle said. Her hands began to worry at the letter again. “Are you familiar with them?”

“Not in the slightest,” she told her. “I don’t think Dorian’s on good terms with them.”

He’d called himself a pariah, she recalled. A pariah with the right family name.

Mother Giselle nodded. “I believe you are correct. The family sent a letter to me describing their estrangement from their son and pleading for my assistance. They’ve asked for me to arrange a meeting, and to keep the reason for it a secret from him. They fear he’ll never come if he knows its purpose. Since you call the young man a good friend, I had hoped –”

“You can’t imagine that I’ll trick Dorian into meeting his parents against his wishes,” Ciri snapped.

She could still remember threatening to tear out Emhyr’s throat with her teeth, and that had been before she knew of their blood connection. If anyone had sprung a heartfelt family reunion on her when they’d been fighting the Wild Hunt, she might have lunged for theirs instead. And assuming Dorian felt even a fraction of the fear and anger that she harbored toward her birth father…

“No,” she said, glaring at Mother Giselle. “Not a chance.”

“I feared you might say that,” Mother Giselle sighed. She held out the letter to Ciri. “Tell the young man, then, or don't. A family retainer will be waiting at the inn in Redcliffe for him, to take him back to Qarinus. The matter can be ended there if he truly doesn't wish to reconcile. I pray you change your mind, Your Worship. If there is any chance to reunite a son with his desperate parents, then we must surely act."

The revered mother bowed again as Ciri took the letter, and she turned and slowly made her way from the main hall. Ciri looked down at the deep blue sealing wax stamped with an image of a peacock feather crossed by a staff and felt a familiar pang of worry. But there was no time to address the matter. She was running late for the meeting. She stuffed the letter in with the rest of the pages and hurried off to the War Room.

She was the last one there, as she’d expected. The others, all gathered around the table, looked up to either nod or smile as she entered and shut the door behind her. She joined them at the table’s edge and placed the papers on a clear spot to the right of the Fallow Mire, casting her gaze over the pewter tokens dotting the landscape. A handful of keys and ravens had appeared in Orlais near towns and cities she was vaguely familiar with, and there was a tight cluster of all three types of tokens in the Gamordan Peaks.

“Duke Cyril and the majority of the court will have reached Val Royeaux by now,” Josephine said with a flick of her eyes toward the city on the map. She seemed slightly out of sorts to Ciri, but it wasn’t anything she could quite put her finger on. “It will take a few weeks to arrange the coronation, but the succession is secured, and Orlais will soon have its emperor. Leaving your honor guard behind to travel with him was a good decision. They’ll represent us well at his coronation.”

“It’s an unusual situation,” Chancellor Roderick added. “The emperor or empress of Orlais is always crowned by the Divine. Never before has Thedas gone for so long without one. I imagine some will whisper about the break with tradition, but it can’t be helped. It isn’t as if we could turn to _Agnesot_ for the coronation.”

“Yes, speaking of Agnesot, what are we doing about Lydes?” Ciri asked. She braced her hands on the edge of the table and leaned forward to catch everyone’s eyes. “We’re nearly three months out from when Dorian and I landed in Redcliffe in the dark future. Fiona told us then that Lydes had become a farm for red lyrium. We’ve left the situation alone for this long, but now that we know Florianne was involved with Corypheus, and that she was likely the source of the funds for the bounty on my head…”

“Duke Cyril has recalled both armies from Dirthavaren,” Cullen said. “A regiment from Celene’s former army is marching on Lydes as we speak. It’s not a popular decision, as Lydes is still a duchy, and excommunicated or not, most Orlesians remember Agnesot as a respected grand cleric, not a false Divine. But he’s taken Florianne’s association with Corypheus personally, and he wishes to see his influence routed from the empire he’s inherited.”

Ciri sucked in a quick, worried breath. “They’re marching on the city?”

“ _Not_ to sack it,” Owain said swiftly. “Duke Cyril is concerned there might be Venatori in the city, or, more likely, Red Templars. Any soldier who harms a civilian will be punished severely.” He slid a letter across the map to her with a reassuring nod. “This arrived while we were waiting for you. It might set your mind at ease.”

She scanned the letter and felt her shoulders relax slightly. “He’s recalling the chevaliers to Val Royeaux for a review of their conduct. And he’s asked Marquise Briala to serve as his official spymaster.”

She hadn’t made a mistake after all. Cyril de Montfort was the man she’d thought him to be, regardless of whether she’d been manipulated into taking that path or not.

“She’ll do well in that role,” Leliana said. “And Lydes is out of our hands now. I am sure we’ll soon learn what the army discovers, for better or for worse.”

“Let’s hope we didn’t leave it until it was too late.” Ciri shuffled through the pages and looked up at Cullen. “As for the other military matter, I understand our fortification of Kirkwall went well?”

“Our soldiers reached the city in time to repel Prince Sebastian’s men,” Cullen confirmed. “A complete rout. He was forced into full retreat back to Starkhaven. We’ve left a few companies behind to garrison with the Kirkwall city guard, and in the empty Gallows, but most of them are on their way back to Skyhold with Bran Cavin and Aveline Vallen’s thanks.”

“That’s a bit of good news.” Ciri turned to Leliana. “And Hawke and Anders haven’t been seen?”

“Not so far as I or my agents have heard, though I’m sure Varric is keeping tabs on their whereabouts,” she said.

Chancellor Roderick frowned at that, but to Ciri’s surprise, Cullen only looked vaguely regretful.

Ciri moved on, motioning to Triss. “You arranged something with Comtesse Solange Montbelliard for the free mages, but I didn’t catch the details.”

Triss smiled. “The comtesse has promised to bring her influence to bear at the University of Val Royeaux. It would open teaching positions and student admission to mages looking to expand their horizons beyond the arcane and give them a semi-controlled environment to interact with similarly-minded peers.”

“That’s an excellent idea,” Cullen said, nodding firmly. He hesitated, then added carefully, as if he were unsure it would be taken well, “If any of the people Comtesse Montbelliard reaches out to are hesitant to aid her without a Templar’s support, please feel free to use my name and former title if it would help.”

Triss looked at him in surprise. “I think she has it taken care of,” she said. “But thank you.”

He nodded again awkwardly. “If there’s anything I can do to help the free mages –”

“I’ll let you know,” Triss said.

Ciri pulled out another page and raised an eyebrow. “I see that Cole’s ‘Amulet of the Unbound’ finally arrived from the Rivaini seers.”

“He’ll be pleased by that,” Raúl said. He chuckled and pushed a cloth-wrapped package across the map to her. “I had three soldiers come to the office right before we left for Halamshiral complaining that their daggers went missing. We found a barrel full of them the morning we got back. I’d think he was playing a prank like Sera if I didn’t know better.”

“So which one of your soldiers got in a brawl and went to pull a dagger, but found themselves unarmed?” Ciri asked in amusement as she tucked the package away in her belt pouch.

“One of my complainers,” Raúl told her with a grin. “He’s still scrubbing out the privies.”

“That will make the lesson stick.” Ciri tapped the stack of papers idly. “I’ll bring Cole the amulet as soon as I have the time. And Solas and Olgierd should be on hand in case anything goes wrong.”

“It can’t be after the meeting,” Leliana said. “Morrigan has asked to speak with you in the garden.”

Ciri frowned. “I understand Duke Cyril thought she might be able to help the Inquisition, but what’s her motivation in being here? What does an apostate turned court enchanter want with a religious army?”

Of all the things to come from the tumultuous night of Halamshiral’s masquerade, the addition of Morrigan to the Inquisition had been the most unexpected. But she could scarcely turn down Duke Cyril’s request after everything that had happened. Still, she’d had a moment of disbelief the morning they’d set out to ride and Morrigan had joined them, a tall, solemn-faced young boy at her side. Morrigan had shed the elaborate court gown in favor of something a hedge-witch might wear, all leather and feathers and natural fibers dyed that same burgundy as her dress. Something in Ciri had eased at that, and mentally re-categorized her from ‘akin to the Lodge’ to merely ‘strange and unknown.’

She’d brought a tall, flat package with her, too large to be carried by horse. It had needed to be stowed lengthwise across the floor of one of the carriages back to Skyhold, accompanied by Morrigan’s sharp rebukes not to bump or damage it. And whenever anyone asked what it was, all they received was a smirk and a clever remark.

"It is less the religious army she's interested in and more the haven you've built, I believe," Josephine said. "You have made the Inquisition a welcoming place for people of all walks of life. Have you had the opportunity to speak to Morrigan's son, Kieran? He is…an unusual boy. Very polite, but a bit unnerving. Morrigan may simply be looking for a safe place to raise him for a while."

“That, and through you, she’ll have access to knowledge most mages can only dream of,” Leliana added. “Not long ago, you and Mihris discovered an Elvhen temple that had been lost since the fall of Elvhenan. She would find that sort of knowledge particularly enticing.”

“If I find I can trust her, I may even give her access to that knowledge,” Ciri said. “But…” She sighed. “Speaking of that temple, and the people who found it.”

“Solas,” Owain said, sympathy filling his face.

“He went missing in the middle of the masquerade, right when I needed him,” she said. “And none of you saw him?”

“We weren’t looking for him,” Triss said, “but no. Not for at least forty minutes.”

“Forty minutes is a long time to search for a garderobe,” Ciri muttered.

“Inquisitor, are you certain you wish to continue to entertain this strategy of attempting to sway Solas from his course while you simultaneously attempt to discover what exactly that course is?” Cullen asked, rubbing his forehead.

Ciri felt her cheeks flush with heat. “It _is_ working,” she defended herself. “The being in the Fade said that whatever we learn from that tablet might prove useful if he uncovered it himself, that what I’m doing _is_ allowing him to have that necessary change of heart. And he seemed stricken by the fact that I was injured in his absence. He has friends now, beyond just Cole and me. If he intends to act on his plan for the Veil, he’d have to knowingly hurt us.”

“And he might do just that,” Owain said bluntly. “He was up to something that night. I know he cares for you; it’s clear he does. But it doesn’t seem to be stopping him.”

“We agreed to this course because there was no evidence that he’d ever acted on this plan,” Raúl said. “It isn’t fair to convict a man on thoughts alone, after all, and it was safe enough to keep a close eye on him here at Skyhold, or to keep him under your watch out in the field. But he’s acted now. He slipped the watch.”

“I know,” Ciri said quietly.

Leliana came around the edge of the table and set her hand on Ciri’s shoulder, drawing her eyes up to meet hers. “I know what it is like to have a blind spot for someone dangerous,” she said, her voice soft. “I had my eyes shut to all the warning signs until it was too late and ended up betrayed by a woman I thought the world of. Don’t let that be your fate.”

Ciri pressed her lips together and looked away. The room was still around her, as if everyone were holding their breath waiting for her answer. Finally, she gave Leliana a short nod. “I understand. And I won’t let him hurt us or carry out his plan. But I’m not done trying to change his mind.”

Leliana didn’t remove her hand. “You said you wouldn’t strike first. If he proves himself a danger –”

“Then I will,” Ciri said reluctantly. “You have my word.” She drummed her fingers on the pages again and added, “He has a connection to Fen’Harel somehow. And he indicated at the masquerade that he’d attended high society parties before, not just seen them in the Fade.”

“I’ll look into it,” Leliana told her. She gave Ciri’s shoulder a gentle pat and let go.

“Enough about Solas,” Ciri said with finality. She returned to her stack of pages and flipped to the last one. “This is interesting. The Freemen moved to the Emerald Graves – and you suspect some of them to be colluding with the Venatori and Red Templars?”

“Unfortunately, your work in shutting down the Deep Roads entrance in the Hinterlands did little to cut off the Red Templars’ access to red lyrium,” Cullen said. “Our scouts report that their shipments are passing through that area unimpeded. Given that it’s become a stronghold for the Freemen, we found it suspicious.”

“Not to mention the reports of the local civilians going missing,” Owain added. “A commoner called Fairbanks has taken a few dozen refugees under his wing and banded them together against the Freemen, but he’s asked for our aid.”

“He’ll have it. Send him a company of soldiers and a few of our best agents. This connection needs to be investigated.”

“He’s also offered to help, but only if he speaks to you personally,” Cullen said.

“ _That_ will have to wait.” Ciri fished out the letter from the Pavus family from the stack. “Cole’s amulet can’t be delegated, and I have an obligation to Dorian that may take me from Skyhold for a few weeks. Fairbanks will get his help. He’ll have to be satisfied with that.”

She gave the stack a final look through and nodded to herself. “I believe that’s the last of it. Unless anyone else has something to add?”

“Only that the revered mothers and I would like a word with you and Seeker Cassandra, Sister,” Chancellor Roderick said to Leliana. “Perhaps this evening?”

Leliana’s eyes sharpened at that. “We will make the time.”

“Thank you.”

“I suppose I had better go and find out what Morrigan wants,” Ciri said. She smiled at Owain. “I’ll see you at supper?”

“I wouldn’t miss it,” he said warmly.

The meeting broke up from there, and Ciri headed out of the War Room at Josephine’s side. To her surprise, her friend went straight past her office without stopping.

“Where are you off to?” she asked.

Josephine gave her a smile tinged with worry. “I received a letter from home that contained some troubling news. It’s my hope that Olgierd can ease my concerns.”

It seemed to be a day for troubling letters from home. “I hope so, too.”

Josephine parted from her in the main hall, heading for the rotunda and then presumably to the library. Ciri went the other way, letting herself out the side door to the garden in search of Morrigan.

Few people were in the garden at the moment. Scout Ritts sat on a stone bench with her nose buried in a book, and the Iron Bull sat at the chess table across from Krem, an easy smile on his craggy face.

Low, emotional voices caught her attention, and she looked toward the gazebo. Her heart gave a painful pang at the sight that greeted her eyes.

Crassius Servis clutched a pale, silver-haired woman to him as a tall, graying man who shared his light brown complexion wrapped his arms around them both. Two of Leliana’s agents stood silently a polite distance away. Servis looked up sharply as Ciri made a soft sound, and a complicated expression crossed his face, one full of anger and regret and love. After a long, weighted moment, he nodded to her and looked away. Ciri smiled wistfully at the reunion, suddenly acutely feeling the vast distance separating her from her parents.

_Soon_ , she promised herself. She wouldn’t be here forever.

“You’re the Inquisitor.”

She turned away from the gazebo at the sound of a boyish voice coming from around shoulder height. Morrigan’s elusive son Kieran, whom she’d only occasionally seen on the trip back to Skyhold, stood at her side staring up at her with big, rich brown eyes. He had Morrigan’s pale skin and black hair, and he wore formal Orlesian clothing in the same burgundy and black as his mother.

“Mother never told me you were a mage,” he continued.

“I am,” Ciri said, then frowned and added, “Sort of. I can’t currently use magic. It hurts me when I do.”

He tilted his head, his eyes taking on an unfocused haze as he stared at her hand. “Your magic wants to move. But the other magic wants to stay still. Yes, that would hurt.” He looked back up at her, his eyes clearing. “Your blood is older than you are.”

“Kieran.” Morrigan strode up, looking between them warily. “Are you bothering the Inquisitor?”

“Of course not.” He turned big, guileless eyes toward Morrigan. “Did you know she’s a mage, Mother? Have you seen her hand?”

“I did see.” Morrigan placed a gentle hand on Kieran’s shoulder and nudged him in the direction of the stairs. “‘Tis time to return to your studies, little man.”

Kieran sighed and plodded off, and Morrigan laughed softly.

“My son,” she said. “Full of boundless curiosity. And never where one expects him to be, naturally.”

Ciri smiled at her. Kieran’s unhappy trudge was so oddly normal after his strangely insightful words. She could see why Josephine had called him unusual. But there was a prickly defensiveness to Morrigan’s posture, and Ciri wasn’t about to pry.

“Leliana told me you wanted to see me,” she said instead.

“I did.” Morrigan turned and began walking toward the other end of the garden, and Ciri fell into step beside her. “Your Inquisition was kind enough to bring my package for me without complaints or fuss, so now I would show you what their efforts wrought on our behalf.”

Ciri looked at her sidelong. _‘Our’ behalf?_

Morrigan slid a key into the lock to a door that, to Ciri’s knowledge, had been used for storage up until now. She turned the handle, glanced over her shoulder, and stepped inside. Ciri followed her through, only to stop short and stare.

“This is an eluvian,” Morrigan said proudly. “An Elvhen artifact, from a time long before their empire was lost to human greed.”

“I’ve heard of them,” Ciri told her. “I’ve seen them in a dream.”

Morrigan’s eluvian stood several feet taller than them, wider than the two of them standing shoulder to shoulder. The surface gleamed dully, like old silver.

“Restoring this one has been the work of the last few years, and I doubt you’ll easily find a better example of an eluvian anywhere in Thedas. However, I believe another lies within the Arbor Wilds. I suspect _that_ is what Corypheus seeks,” Morrigan said.

“How do you know?” Ciri asked. “Or suspect, rather.”

Morrigan led the way over to her eluvian. She answered with a note of pride in her voice. “I found legends of an Elvhen temple within the Arbor Wilds, lost to the ages. I made an attempt to approach, but it proved too dangerous for a lone mage, even one as strong as I. In the end, I had to turn elsewhere to find my prize. If Corypheus turns southward, his army could succeed where I alone could not. The eluvian would be his.”

“If he controlled an eluvian, he could move his army halfway across Thedas in an instant,” Ciri said at once. It was little wonder Corypheus was ransacking ancient Elvhen ruins if he was searching for an eluvian.

“He could do far worse than that.” Morrigan lifted her hands, and with a sudden shoving motion, thrust magic at the inert eluvian.

It woke with the sound of steam hitting cold air. Its surface rippled an eerie blue, the colors flickering silver and lilac in places before fading back to the deep, unnatural shade at its heart.

“Come and see the power Corypheus wishes to possess,” Morrigan said, gesturing to the swirling blue eluvian.

Cautiously, and with more than a little intrigue, Ciri followed Morrigan through.

It was nothing like walking through a portal. It felt as though she’d stepped through a waterfall made of light, gently pouring down over her like the cool, dry-water sensation of Solas’ barrier spell. For just the barest moment, her movement met resistance. Then it gave way, like a soap bubble popping beneath her fingers, and she came out the other side.

She stepped out into a vast, empty space, the floor beneath her feet made of gleaming white stone. Everywhere she turned her head, coruscating rainbows glinted at the corners of her eyes. The light above seemed clearer and cleaner than it had in the room they’d just left behind. The air was still, but it almost seemed to hum against her skin. And every which way she looked, she saw eluvians. Massive and small, decorated with gold or wrought with sturdy iron, dozens, perhaps hundreds dotted the stone plain. And for each eluvian that looked whole, ten were dark or broken. Interspersed between them were enormous, stylized metal trees, their branches curving around gracefully to form globes that reminded Ciri strikingly of antlers.

“If ever this place had a name,” Morrigan said, her voice hushed, “it has long been lost.”

They wandered together deeper into the collection of eluvians and barren metal trees, their footsteps silent on the white stone floor. A faint mist twined about their ankles.

“I call it the Crossroads,” Morrigan continued. “The place where all eluvians join – wherever they might be.”

“I dreamt of something like this,” Ciri said quietly. “The reality is so much more than I expected. To think it’s lasted for thousands of years! What even _is_ this place?”

“Some tiny world floating between ours and the Fade, crafted from the fabric of time and space itself, perhaps,” Morrigan said. “The Elvhen were nothing if not masters of the arcane arts.”

Ciri blinked in surprise at that. _Time and space_. If Morrigan was right, it was little wonder she felt so alive here. The magic of this place felt familiar in an almost friendly way.

“A tiny world?” she asked. “An artificial one?”

Morrigan tilted her head in confirmation. “As best I can determine. Not all eluvians lead from one point on Thedas to another. Some lead...beyond. To places like this, or others like it. I spent time in one, years ago. It offered sanctuary, a space to raise my son in peace.”

Ciri bit back the dozen questions that arose, and she pushed down the sudden urge to ask if she’d traveled past the crafted Fade realms to real worlds. Morrigan was still a veritable stranger despite this show of trust. But the knowledge that the eluvians were even more like portals than she’d imagined was beyond interesting. She’d want to look into that later.

She said none of this, simply saying instead, “But you didn’t stay.”

“I am not so cruel as to keep my son in isolation, away from anyone to socialize with but his mother,” Morrigan said. “No matter the risks involved, or the beauty and safety of our sanctuary’s surroundings.”

“I understand,” Ciri told her. 

Morrigan gave her a half-smile and continued briskly. “As you can see, most of the mirrors are dark. Over thousands of years, they’ve become broken, corrupted, or simply unusable. As for the rest, a few can be opened from this side. But only a few.”

Ciri met her strange golden eyes and raised her eyebrows. “But someone would have to get here in order to use them, and I imagine that’s no small feat.”

“No, and thus I believe Corypheus strives to possess the one in the Arbor Wilds. Few eluvians in Thedas still work, and of those, only a handful are ‘unlocked,’ like a door left ajar. All others are closed and can only be opened from beyond. Should he attain what he seeks, he could come here and open any such eluvian, provided he had the key.”

“What sort of key unlocks an eluvian?” Ciri asked.

“Each key is different,” Morrigan said. “Some require a passcode. Others need an enchanted gem, or a spell.”

Ciri nodded absently, her eyes trailing over the darkened eluvians and the bare-branched metal trees. Control of the eluvian network would give Corypheus unprecedented power. He could overwhelm Thedas with his army before the Inquisition and their allies could respond. And yet something about that didn’t seem to ring true.

“This place,” she said, turning back to Morrigan. “It isn’t in the physical world. And it’s not in the Fade?”

“No, but it’s very close.”

“Is it close enough that Corypheus could enter the Fade from here?”

Morrigan's eyes glinted. "With enough magic, from this little world, he could tear down the ancient barriers separating the physical world from the Fade.”

“Just as he’d intended to do with the Anchor.” Ciri looked around at the white plain again, rainbows glinting in the corners of her eyes, and felt urgency nibbling at her heels. “Does your eluvian require a key?”

“It does,” Morrigan confirmed.

“Guard it well, then,” Ciri told her firmly. “And don’t let anyone else know you’ve brought an eluvian to Skyhold.”

_Especially Solas._

“As you say, Inquisitor.” Morrigan began to walk back toward her shimmering, glowing eluvian. “You have made your enemy desperate. I look forward to aiding you in foiling him yet again.”

“Thank you for the assistance,” Ciri said, and as Morrigan disappeared through the eluvian, she added under her breath, “and the warning.”

She stepped in after her through the soap-bubble waterfall of light. The problems of Corypheus, Solas, and the Fade could wait. For now, she had an amulet and a letter to deliver.

* * *

“Will you not tell me what the matter is?” Olgierd asked as Josephine’s door shut behind them. “You look like you’ve seen your own grave.”

Josephine had come and fetched him from the library where he’d been perusing the shelves in search of something new to read, her face troubled and full of worry. But not a word of her problem had crossed her lips as she’d led him back to her room to speak in private.

She could barely muster a smile at that, and his heart ached to see the pale imitation that crossed her face. He extended a hand to her only for her to step out of reach and begin to nervously pace her small room, her fingers twisting before her.

“It is not quite so dire as you say,” she began. “No one’s life is at stake this time.”

Olgierd realized his hand was still outstretched, and he dropped it, his stomach dropping with it. “Whatever it is, we are partners in this.”

Josephine’s knuckles went white as her fingers twisted, and she took another silent turn back and forth. Finally, the words flew from her lips, and with them, all the air disappeared from the room.

“I’m engaged.”

_Engaged_.

For a moment, he couldn’t breathe. His heart was a pounding drumbeat in his ears. Past sorrows seemed to stretch before him as the present wrote an eerie parallel.

“It wasn’t my doing – my parents have been searching for a suitable match for me for some time –”

He took a deep, ragged breath and leaned back against the wall, pressing a hand to his face.

“Olgierd?”

“You asked me to let you walk away if ever you wished to leave,” he said hoarsely. “Do you wish it, Josephine?”

Every fiber in his body, every mote of his being, longed to keep her by his side. But his desperate fight for Iris was what had caused his downfall before. He couldn’t hate whoever Josephine’s parents had engaged her to as he’d once hated the Ofieri prince. The man likely had no knowledge of their courtship, and he hadn’t the anger in him that he used to. There would be no reckless curses and man-eating toads this time.

He heard a quick patter of feet rushing over, and then Josephine’s soft hand was on his, drawing it from his face to clasp between hers. Her hazel eyes stared up at him, distressed and determined in equal measure.

“ _No._ ” Her hands gripping his tightly, she exhaled and started over. “As the next head of our house, my parents are determined that I marry well. Since I had very little success courting while in Orlais, they took it upon themselves to find someone for me. They began looking not long after I joined the Inquisition – I didn’t think anything of it since I never heard about it from them again. 

“And after our talk during the trouble with the House of Repose, it completely slipped my mind to write to them that we’d become serious about each other. Now they’ve engaged me to a count, a Lord Adorno Ciel Otranto. If only I’d remembered to tell them of you! None of this would have happened!”

“It’s too late to consider what-ifs,” he sighed. It was on the tip of his tongue to ask her to elope, and he bit it back, terrified of making the same mistake twice. “What do you wish to do?”

He watched her throat bob as she swallowed nervously. “I have never gone against my parents in such matters,” she said, her voice soft. “But Olgierd. Tell me we have a future together and I will _run_ to my desk to write to them and have them call the engagement off.”

A wave of relief hit him, and he leaned harder into the wall. He opened his mouth to give her his eager agreement, then faltered as a realization struck him.

“I cannot be selfish with your happiness,” he said quietly. “I’ve told you of Solas’ theory of Imshael and O’Dimm being one and the same. If they are, I may face the piper’s tune sooner than I would have hoped. To promise you a lifetime, only to leave you after a scant few months – I wouldn’t wish that on you.”

Her face fell, but her grip on his hand grew even tighter, and the determination in her eyes shone that much brighter. “I will not lose you to this demon. Not after Ciri’s father already freed you from him. You have Ciri, Solas, and Mihris to help you this time. And I –” She exhaled shakily. “–I would rather have a few months with you than a lifetime with Count Adorno.”

“That’s not a future, dove,” he whispered to her.

“Then you will have to live so that we will have one.” She leaned up and pressed her lips to his, soft and sweet.

He pulled her into his arms and closed his eyes, just trying to breathe steadily. Against Josephine’s back, his hands trembled just the slightest bit. Her perfume, faint and sweetly spicy, floated around his head, chasing the ghosts of the past from the room and anchoring him to the present.

“I haven’t a title here in Thedas,” he said after his hands had finally stilled. In the back of his mind, a quiet voice that sounded like his brother’s chided him to stop talking. “I’ve my wealth, but your parents might look askance at a commoner with money. They may think I’m reaching above my station.”

“The Montilyets got their start as merchants,” Josephine said from within the circle of his arms. “Mother and Father would be hypocrites to judge you for that. And you would share my title through marriage.”

“I’m a mage,” he reminded her. “That won’t be good for your family’s reputation.”

“The Inquisition is improving the lives and rights of mages across Thedas,” she countered. “And can the magic of the Continent be inherited?”

His heart gave a wild leap at the implications of her question, but he answered her steadily. “Some of it. Ciri’s, certainly. Not mine.”

“Then it’s hardly a problem.”

“Your parents are going to think you found me in the worst den of crime and iniquity in Thedas the moment they lay eyes on me.”

“I would bet a hundred royals that Yvette went back to Antiva City with breathless tales of the scarred hero who saved her life at the masquerade. And we are Antivan. If they imagined you came from a den of crime and iniquity, it would only be the third-worst den at best.”

He laughed and pulled her closer. “I’m well over twice your age –”

“We agreed that doesn’t matter, and besides, you yourself say you don’t feel it anymore.” She laughed into his shoulder. “Try another one.”

“I’ll ask your cook to make all manner of strange Redanian dishes.”

“I will gladly eat them. And for every dish of yours, we will serve something traditionally Antivan.” She turned her face up to his with a smile brimming with amusement. “Out of arguments already? You cannot push me into the arms of another, my dear one, no matter how selfless you feel you must be.”

“Pushing you into the arms of another is the last thing I want to do,” he told her. “But I’m a bad bet, dove.”

“And I’m an Antivan,” she retorted. “I know a winning hand when I see one.” Her smile shrank, and she fixed him with a serious look. “We promised each other honesty in our personal lives. Do we have a future together?”

“Oh, Josephine.” He raised a hand to cup her cheek. “I would gladly spend all the rest of my days with you.”

“Then do,” she said softly.

He drew his hand from her cheek to her hair to tuck a stray curl behind her ear. “All my days,” he said, “and all my nights. All my joys and sorrows. I had not thought to love again, but you – I could not guard my heart against you. You’ve tied a knot around it, and the other end of the line is in your hand.”

She shook her head at him, her eyes bright with emotion. “It isn’t in my hand. It’s tied around my own. How could you imagine that I would love you any less when you bring me such happiness?”

Words failed him. All he could do was drop his head and capture her lips with his, joy and affection and desire all rushing through him. Her arms twined about his neck and drew him closer to deepen the kiss. He wrapped an arm around her waist and lost himself in the softness of her mouth.

To think he could be the cause of someone’s happiness after bringing despair to so many people – ardently, honestly, with every breath in his battered body, he loved her.

He pulled away reluctantly, laying one last tender kiss on her lips.

“Well,” he said at last. “Tied together as we are, I suppose there’s naught we can do but keep our partnership.” He smiled down at her, and he added teasingly, “Once you’re no longer a promised woman, of course.”

“Oh!” She stiffened in his arms. “I told you I’d run – I’ll go and write them before they make any more decisions on my behalf!”

He laughed again and pulled her back. “It can keep a few minutes, dove. Stay a moment. Just…stay a moment.”

She settled back into his embrace with a soft sigh, and the last vestiges of dread finally disappeared at the warm weight against his chest.

He was most assuredly undeserving of such good fortune. The looming specter of O’Dimm seemed to prove as much. But by Josephine’s Maker and all the gods of the Continent, he’d do his best to be worthy.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [A Sword of Fire and Light](https://archiveofourown.org/works/28131042) by [BattleFries](https://archiveofourown.org/users/BattleFries/pseuds/BattleFries)




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